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New Faces and Old 


SHORT STORIES 


by 

FRANCIS J. FINN, S. J., 

M 

Author of “ Tom Playfair,'' Percy Wynn," Harry Dee," "Claude 
Lightfoot," etc. 



' A 

9 


St. Louis, Mo. 1896. 
Published BY B. HERDER, 
17 South Broadway. 





-f 




c 


IK 




Copyright 1896, 

By JOS. GUIVUMERSBACH. 


Becktold & Co., Printers and Binders, 
ST. LOUIS, MO. 


CONTENTS 


Page. 

I. A Point op Honor, - - - - 5 

J II. Round Christmas Footlights, - 27 

v/lll. The Reformation of Gussie Hooker, 60 
,/lV. “Little Brother,” - - - 85 
/\. The Casuistry of Thomas Playfair, 97 
/ VI , One op Claude Lightfoot’s Birthdays, 103 



NEW FACES AND OLD. 


A POINT OF HONOR. 


I. 

|N Commencement night, Harry Liscombe 
went forth from his home with a gay 
boutonniere in the lapel of his coat. 
His face was in keeping with the flowers. 
There was a bloom in his cheek, a brightness 
in his laughing eyes; and if he ever had ex- 
perienced a care, time, like an absent-minded 
book-keeper, had failed to enter it on his 
sunny features. 

There was just the least suspicion of a trip 
in Harry’s buoyant step as he hastened along 
the street, whisthng choice fragments from 
“Sweet Marie,” “After the Ball,” and an- 
other unspeakable melody of the day. Ev- 


6 


New Faces and Old. 


idently Harry was happy. To him the Com- 
mencement exercises presented no terrors. He 
was quite sure of the prize in Latin, and 
looked forward with confidence to obtaining a 
second premium in two or three other branches. 
Moreover he was now, and for the first time, 
arrayed in all the splendor of “long pants. 
The time was well chosen. On the one hand, 
his smaller playmates would admire and envy 
him ; on the other, as there was to be no class 
till September, his college friends would have 
no opportunity of teasing him on his changed 
appearance. No wonder, then, that he did not 
actually trip; a sense of dignity comes with 
“long pants,” which, though intense, is not 
lasting. 

Harry had gone some four squares when he 
turned into a quiet by-street, and going up the 
steps of a humble house, the third from the 
corner, rapped at the door. 

“Come in, Harry,” cried a voice. 

“How did you know it was I ? ” asked Harry, 
as he opened the door and expanded into a smile. 

“I could tell your step in a procession — it’s 
quick and light,” answered the first speaker, a 
lad at least two years older than Harry, but 
slighter, paler, and far more serious looking. 


A Point of Honor, 


7 


“Good evening, Mrs. Stuart,” continued 
Harry, bowing to the mother of his friend, 
who was seated close to a table lamp, with a 
basket of needlework in her lap. 

Mrs. Stuart nodded pleasantly and, after a 
few words, resumed her sewing. 

“Where’s your button-hole bouquet?” con- 
tinued Harry. 

Dick Stuart shrugged his shoulders, and 
asked : 

“Don’t I look brilliant enough?” 

“You’ll pass in a crowd; but as you and I 
are going to walk together, we’d better corres- 
pond.” 

Harry, as he spoke, took from his pocket a 
little paper package, which he carefully un- 
folded. It contained a boutonniere like his 
own, and a fragrant red rose. 

“The rose is for you, Mrs. Stuart. I plucked 
it off father’s nicest rose bush while the gar- 
dener was chasing a dog off our lot. I say, Mrs. 
Stuart,” he added, while he presented her the 
flower, “you oughtn’t to sew at night; you’ll 
hurt your eyes. My mother doesn’t sew at 
night.” 

“My eyes are quite good, thank you, Harry,” 
said Mrs. Stuart with a smile. She did not 


8 


New Faces and Old, 


think it worth while intimating that a doubtful 
income of six hundred dollars compared with 
a certain one of ten thousand dollars made a 
considerable difference in the economy of a 
household. 

“Harry’s right, mother,” put in Dick. 
“Your eyes aren’t near so good as you make 
them out to be. Sometimes you hold your 
sewing machines — fixings, I mean — within four 
inches of your face. You oughtn’t to sew 
much at night anyhow. And then, suppose, 
mother, I get that scientific medal.” 

Dick stopped short : Harry, he noticed, had 
given a sudden start. 

“But I mustn’t count my chickens before 
they are hatched,” he added, with an apologetic 
look directed to Harry. 

From that moment till they got out into the 
open air Harry was unmistakably ill at ease. 

“Dick,” he began, as arm in arm they 
stepped briskly forward, “do you think that 
your chances are good for that scientific med- 
al?” 

“Well, if hard work counts for anything, I 
ought to stand a fair chance. I never worked 
for anything as I worked for that. Why, 
Hariy, I read eight different books on the sub- 


A Point of Honor. 


9 


ject through, and took notes from all of them 
— in fact, I analyzed one of them from cover 
to cover. It cost me a month. I went over 
another of the books three times. Then I 
wrote out my essay five times, and I tell you 
I was dead tired when I ofot throu2:h.” 

“I should think you were! Good gracious, 
Dick, what put it into your head to work so 
hard?’’ 

Dick hesitated for a moment. 

“Well, I don’t mind telling it to you, Harry, 
but you mustn’t publish it. Last March I 
went to see a doctor, and he told me I was in 
danger of going into an incurable disease. He 
put me under treatment and a diet — especially 
a diet,” — Dick uttered his last words with fer- 
vent disgust, “and said that if I could manage 
to go to Waukesha this summer and put my- 
self under the charge of some doctor or other 
there — I can’t remember his name — I might 
be permanently cured. Now just two days 
before the doctor punched and pounded me, I 
got a letter from my uncle in Cincinnati, who’s 
a very wealthy man, in which he offered to 
give me a full summer trip if I should win the 
scientific medal. My mother, you know, is 
very poor. Since father’s death, two years 


10 


New Faces and Old, 


ago, weVe been trying to straighten our af- 
fairs, and havn’t managed to do so yet. Now, 
Harry, do you understand ? ’ ’ 

Did Harry understand ? The light had gone 
from his eyes, the elasticity from his step, the 
flush from his cheek. He drew his hand- 
kerchief from his pocket to wipe the moisture 
from his hands. 

“Oh, how I hope you’ll get it, Dick,” he 
cried in a burst of fervor, more intense than 
the occasion and even his great friendship 
might seem to warrant. 

Dick looked at Harry in surprise. 

“I believe you, Harry,” he said. “But you 
needn’t get so excited about it. You seem to 
be more anxious for my success than I am. 
And I’ve gone too far myself. The fact is, 
I’m getting selfish in this matter. I’ve got to 
be so anxious that I feel ashamed of myself ; 
and of late I’ve been praying hard not to be 
too eager. But eager as I am, Harry, just the 
same if I don’t get it, I hope you may. In 
fact, I wouldn’t worry a bit, if you — ” 

“Don’t you talk any more of that nonsense ; 
don’t you hope anything of the sort,” bawled 
Harry fiercel3^ 


A Point of Honor, 


11 


“Why, old fellow, what in the world’s the 
matter with you ? ’ ’ 

When this question was put, they were pass- 
ing Holy Trinity Church. 

“Suppose we walk in here for a moment,” 
said Harry, “and say a little prayer, first, that 
you may get the medal, second, that I may 
not, in any case.” 

“I’ll not agree to that,” cried Dick warmly, 
“what do you take me for? I’ll pray that 
either you or I may get it.” 

“Look here, Dick Stuart,” said Harry, 
catching his companion’s arm in a grip that 
was painful, and lowering his voice to a whis- 
per, “You and I have been partners for the 
last four or five weeks, haven’t we?” 

“Yes,” assented Dick, struggling not to 
wince under Harry’s grip. 

“And I like you better than any fellow I 
have ever met, and I believe you like me — ’ ’ 

“Better than any fellow Fve ever met,” 
broke in Dick. 

“Well now. If you want to do me a favor, 
pray that I may not get the medal.” 

“All right, Harry — that is, I won’t pray 
that you may get it.” 

“But you must.” 


12 


New Faces and Old. 


“Very well; but I fear I won’t want to be 
heard. Anyhow, I don’t understand.” 

“I don’t want you to understand,” returned 
Harry, “but pray for all you’re worth.” 

The two then entered the church . 

II. 

The moment had come for which Dick had 
been so eagerly and Harry so anxiously wait- 
ing. They were seated next each other, Dick’s 
right hand clasped in Harry’s left — “that’s 
nearest my heart,” Harry had said. 

“The gold medal for the scientific essay, 
subject ‘Oxygen,’ is awarded to Henry Lis- 
combe; honorably mentioned, Richard Stu- 
art.” 

Harry uttered a gasp which deepened into a 
groan; his face fiushed scarlet, Dick’s was 
ashen. 

“I’m glad you’ve got it,” Harry, he whis- 
pered. “It might have come hard on me; 
but our visit at Holy Trinity settled that. 
Why don’t you go up?” 

“I can’t,” gasped Harry. 

Even then the Vice-President was running 
his eyes over the students to discover the 
whereabout of the prize-winner. 


A Point of Honor, 


13 


“Go on — you’ll create a scene,” urged Dick. 

“Is Harry Liscombe present?” the Vice- 
President inquired, so modulating his voice 
that it might reach only the students directly 
in front of the stage. 

Then Harry arose, and amid generous ap- 
plause, received the medal. 

But instead of returning to his seat, he made 
his way down the hall, and once outside the 
door, dashed down the stairs and into the street, 
on reaching which his first act was to tear the 
medal from his coat. 

“Oh, what shall I do?” he cried out. “I’m 
a thief, and not only a thief, but I’ve robbed 
my dearest friend ! ’ ’ 

HI. 

Three months before Commencement, Harry 
had gone to his room in very bad humor. 
His father and he had had a slight misunder- 
standing ; or, to put it better, they had come 
to an understanding. Harry, on that partic- 
ular day, was for going to the circus. 

“Have you finished your scientific essay?” 
Mr. Liscombe asked. 

“No, father; I haven’t begun it. The fact 
is, I don’t care about competing.” 


14 


New Faces and Old, 


‘ ‘Indeed ! Why not T ’ 

“Oh, I don’t care about it. I’m all right in 
my other studies, but I’m not up in science. 
Besides, I’m the youngest boy in the chemistry 
class, and I don’t stand the least chance.” 

“I’m sorry you don’t care, Harry; but at 
the same time I do care very much. You are 
hardly a little boy now, and your not caring 
about this or that is only a pleasant way of 
saying that you are lazy. Now, my boy, I 
told you some months ago that I wanted you 
to compete for that gold medal, and I thought 
my wish would be enough.” 

“I intended to go in for it, father.” 

“You always mean well, Harry, I’m sure; 
but you must do well, too. Now, put the cir- 
cus out of your head, go to your room and 
begin your essay. The circus is to be here for 
a week yet. When you’ve finished your essay, 
come to me.” 

Harry obeyed, but smarted under the obe- 
dience. 

Sitting down at his study-table, he ran his 
fingers through his hair, took up a lead-pencil, 
which he sharpened with elaborate care, and 
finally began his uncongenial task with such 
glittering generalities on oxygen as might be 


A Point of Honor. 


15 


expected of a tolerably well-read lad of fifteen. 
Within ten minutes he had composed quite a 
fair introduction, which, after the manner of 
youthful writers, was general, sweeping, and 
vague. Then Harry came to a pause. To go 
further, accurate knowledge must be brought 
into play ; to get this accurate knowledge meant 
hours of study. Harry had come to an intel- 
lectual deadlock. He sighed, threw his pencil 
savagely upon the table, and began pacing the 
floor. His brow was furrowed, his hair stood 
up in a variety of directions — he looked like a 
student on the eve of some great discovery; 
as a matter of fact, his mind was a blank. 

‘‘May I come in?” said a light voice without. 

“Yes; do please, Mary. I’m in the depths.” 

His sister, a girl of seventeen, entered. 

“Why, Harry, what has happened? Is it 
an inspiration? Has an idea come to you?” 

“No, Mary, it’s the other way. All my 
ideas have left me.” 

“Oh, it’s much the same. What’s the 
trouble ? ’ ’ 

“Father says I’ve got to write that old sci- 
entific essay about oxygen. I’ve scribbled off 
an introduction ; but I don’t see how I can go 
a single sentence further,” 


16 


New Faces and Old. 


“Oh, is it about oxygen, Harry?” 

“Yes, it is; and I wish I’d never heard of 
the old stuff.” 

“I’ve got just what you want. There’s an 
old number of a scientific magazine in my 
room with a fine article on ‘The Air.’ Most 
of it is about oxygen.” 

“You have! That will save me hours of 
running through text-books. Mary, you’re 
the right kind of a sister ’ ’ 

“Which means that you want me to run o:ff 
and get you the magazine.” 

Harry grinned. 

“I didn’t intend to put it so — so — ” 

“Brutally,” suggested Mary. 

“Exactly. But if you bring it to me. I’ll 
fix up that essay in a jiffy, and then I’ll take 
you to the circus.” 

Curiously enough, this young lady was not 
insensible to the charms of the circus. She 
hastened away and returned promptly with the 
coveted magazine, and then left her brother to 
his solitude. 

Harry read the article carefully, slapped his 
thigh at the end, and cried out : 

“Just the thing to a dot; it’s short and 
clear.” 


A Point of Honor, 


17 


Having given the article a second reading, 
he composed himself to his work, and, not 
without labor, wrote a few sentences. But the 
words failed to come readily, and, in a fit of 
impatience, he began to copy word for word 
from the printed page. To do Harry justice, 
he was not thinking of securing the gold 
medal. His one point was to get the disagree- 
able task off his hands, and so go to the circus. 
Copying he found to be quite an easy matter. 
In a few hours he had, with some judicious 
and time-saving omissions, transferred the por- 
tion bearing upon oxygen from the magazine 
to his paper. Then he threw in a few cheap 
flourishes by way of conclusion, and signed his 
nom de flume. Strangely enough, his con- 
science, meantime, was practically asleep. It 
never once occurred to him that his essay 
might gain the medal. 

In due time he handed it in ; in due time he 
went with his sister to the circus ; of the latter 
he retained vivid recollections, but his essay 
slipped from his memory almost as though it 
had not been. 

Some five or six weeks before Commence- 
ment his intimacy with Dick Stuart began. 
Morally, Dick was a character strong and 


18 


New Faces and Old, 


sweet. He was studious, conscientious, kind, 
just. In his company Harry’s dormant con- 
science soon began to show signs of an awaken- 
ing. Dick’s sense of honor communicated 
itself to Harry ; and, as the days went by, the 
voice of conscience became imperative. Finally, 
two weeks before the ending of the school 
year, Harry went to the Vice-President. 

“Father,” he said, “I should be obliged to 
you, if you were to allow me to withdraw my 
scientific essay.” 

The Vice-President was unusually busy at 
the time ; he failed to observe the distress in 
the boy’s face. 

“Too late, Harry,” he said, checking off 
the names of late-comers as he spoke. “Ev- 
erything has been settled already.” 

Harry withdreAV with a lighter heart, he had 
done something^ at any rate, and as to getting 
the medal, the thought had not as yet entered 
his head. 

But when on Commencement night Dick 
Stuart gave word to his hopes and fears, it 
flashed upon Harry that his own borrowed es- 
say would in all likelihood be considered the 
better of the two. It was a sickening mo- 
ment. When the prize was awarded him his 


A Point of Honor. 


19 


feelings were agonizing. A thief! robbing 
his best friend of honor so well earned, and, 
in consequence, of a trip upon which depended, 
in all probability, the usefulness of a promising 
and beautiful life. 

Harry hurried home from the hall, locked 
himself into his room, and gazed about him 
wildly. His eye rested, at last, upon his 
little brother sleeping peacefully, his slender 
hands clasped above the white coverlet, the 
beads of the Blessed Virgin about his neck. 
Long and intently Harry gazed. There was 
not a line, nor wrinkle, nor shade of trouble 
upon the sleeper’s face. Peace and purity 
and love seemed to have set their gracious 
signet marks upon every feature. He looked 
as an angel might look, were it to take a 
human form. Truth and simplicity and in- 
nocence lent a spiritual beauty to the sleeping 
child. Three years ago the gazer had been 
just such a one as his little brother — and now 
Harry burst into tears. The first passionate 
outbreak of grief was very soon over, but it 
left him upon his knees; and there he knelt 
far into the night. 


20 


New Faces and Old. 


IV. 

On the next morning Harry took his father 
aside. 

“Father, you intended to give me a trip 
East, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, Harry; your mother and sister and 
uncle are to start for New York on July 6th, 
and you are to go with them. You deserve a 
trip, my boy,” he added kindly and with a 
beaming smile. 

“No, father; I do not. I want you to let 
me off that trip.” 

Mr. Liscombe looked sharply at his boy, 
and saw that there was a great trouble upon 
him. 

“What’s the matter, Harry?” 

“I’ve done something that I’m ashamed of, 
father. Don’t ask me about it now. I’ll tell 
you some day. First of all, I want to make 
reparation, I need money for that.” 

There was a dimness in Harry’s eyes, and, 
as he spoke, a sigh broke from him which he 
could not repress. Mr. Liscombe had fine 
tact. He respected the soul of his boy. He 
knew that there were recesses there where 
God alone might penetrate uninvited. 


A Point of Honor. 


21 


“I trust you fully, Harry. You can tell me 
or not — as you please, and when you please.” 

Harry never so loved his father as he loved 
him at this moment. He said nothing; but 
his silence was eloquent. 

“How much money do you want, Harry?” 

“It’s a big sum, father.” 

“First of all, I make you a present of the 
money your Eastern trip would have required 
— say, one hundred and twenty dollars.” 

“Thank you, father ; but I need about eighty 
dollars more.” 

“Very good; call down at my office to-day, 
and it shall be paid you in any way you want 
it.” 

“But, father, if you please, I should like to 
earn that eighty dollars. I’ve done wrong, 
and I’d like to do a Uttle penance. Let me go 
to work.” 

Mr. Liscombe paused before replying. 

“Well, I’d like to think over that. I want 
my boy to have a rest. I’ll turn the matter 
over in my mind, and let you know my con- 
clusion later. Call for the money this after- 
noon, and then perhaps I may be ready to de- 
cide as to whether you should go to work or 
not.” 


22 


New Faces and Old. 


In the course of the hour the President of 
St. Dunstan’s College heard a knock at his 
door. 

“Come in/’ he cried, carefully slipping a 
sheet of paper over the open pages of a mag- 
azine which he had been reading with knitted 
brows. 

“Ah, Harry,” he exclaimed, “I was just 
thinking of you.” 

“Father,” said Harry, panting and blush- 
ing, “let me get it out at once. Here’s that 
gold medal. I stole it. It isn’t mine.” 

“Sit down, Harry, and tell me all about 
it.” 

The American boy is delightfully frank. 
Harry, in truth, delivered a plain unvarnished 
tale. 

“One question, Harry,” said the President 
gently on Harry’s coming to a pause. “When 
you copied from this — ” here the President 
slipped away the paper and revealed the mag- 
azine open at one of the pages from which 
Harry had copied — “did you do so with the 
intention of winning the medal?” 

“No, sir,” cried Harry. 

“But didn’t it occur to you that you might 
win it?” 


A Point of Honor, 


23 


“No, Father; the only thing I had on my 
mind was to get that essay off and go to the 
circus.” 

The President smiled. 

“Harry, you’ve taken a great weight o:ff my 
mind. Just a moment ago I was tempted to 
judge you harshly. It shocked me to think 
that one whose name for honor stood so high 
should deliberately cheat for a prize. But 
your explanation takes away the worst feature, 
and your confession makes up for much. If 
you had copied with the intention of getting 
the medal, then you would indeed be a thief. 
But you had not even in a confused and ob- 
scure way such an intention.” 

“That’s true. Father, but all the same I’ve 
done a great wrong. As a matter of fact, I 
have the honor which belongs to Dick Stuart. 
I can’t make up for that.” 

“No ; you can never make up for that,” said 
the President gravely, “and it is well that you 
should know it. I think, Harry, that God has 
been watching over you in a special way. Had 
you not gained that medal your sense of honor 
would have been blunted ; had you gained it, 
but not over one who happens to be your best 
friend and to need it very much, you might have 


24 


Ntw Faces and Old. 


stifled your conscience and gone on in a path 
which certainly would not be the one which 
your father, a man of stainless honor, has fol- 
lowed. But now, on the very threshold of dis- 
honor, jmu are driven back. Harry, you have 
reason to thank God. Show your thankful- 
ness by resolving, from now on, never to do 
the least thing tainted with even the suspicion 
of dishonor.” 

“I do resolve, sir,” said Harry, very erect 
and very earnest. “I see it all. God has been 
very good to me. And now I’m going down 
to my father. I’ll give him the whole story 
straight.” 

“Do, my boy; and I doubt not that out of 
this evil God will draw great good.” 

Harry went away happy. His father took 
the matter as the President had taken it. He 
congratulated his son on his courage in con- 
fessing. 

“Now in regard to your working, Harry,” 
continued Mr. Liscombe, “I’ve come to the 
conclusion that you are right. You should 
make reparation. I already know all about 
Dick Stuart, and I happen to have the address 
of his rich uncle, who does business with me. 
And now I want you to write the uncle a con- 


A Point of Honor, 


25 


fidential letter, confessing your fault and en- 
closing the two hundred dollars.’’ 

“Oh, I see!” cried Harry in delight. “I 
am to get the uncle to give Dick the trip, just 
as if he had gained the medal, so that Dick 
won’t know I’ve anything to do with it.” 

“Exactly, and ” 

But Mr. Liscombe paused. Harry had flown 
to a desk, seized paper and pen, and begun 
writing furiously. 

“Oh, I say, father, what about that job?” 
cried Harry, stopping in the middle of the 
letter. 

“It’s secret service.” 

“What’s that, sir?” 

“You’re to go to Waukesha too. Your 
work is to make Dick Stuart happy for two 
months.” 

As Harry here spilled a bottle of ink over 
the desk the conversation was interrupted. 

“If you wish to express your happiness, go 
outside,” continued Mr. Liscombe. “Well, 
it’s a good work for you. You are a cheerful 
young man, and you have a knack for keeping 
young Stuart on the go, which no one else 
has. Your services will be as good as the 
doctor’s, and since you have wronged your 


26 


New Faces and Old, 


friend in one way, you must right him in 
another.” 

Dick and Harry had a jolly time. Harry 
was as successful a nurse, I dare say, as ever 
accompanied a patient to Waukesha. 

Dick returned the picture of health ; Harry 
returned the soul of honor. Dick is healthy 
and strong to this day; and Harry is — and, I 
trust, ever will be — a knight without fear and 
without reproach. 



Round Christmas Footlights. 


27 


ROUND CHRISTMAS FOOTLIGHTS. 



I. 

The Story of David. 

|H, Mr. Murdock, the angel told me 
to tell you that he can’t come to re- 
^ hearsal to-day, because he’s got a 
black eye.” 

“Go and get him anyhow,” said Mr. Mur- 
dock, in decided tones; “an angel with a black 
eye can announce the good tidings just as well 
as not. Tell him that the author of the play 
is here and is anxious to see the whole re- 
hearsal.” 

Harry Verdin, who had just delivered the 
angel’s health-bulletin, glanced curiously at 
the stranger, who, it appeared, was the play- 
wright, and then sped away skippingly in 
quest of the recalcitrant angel, while the four 
remaining young gentlemen stared hard and 
artlessly at the blushing author. 


28 


New Faces and Old. 


It was three days before Christmas. For 
several weeks Mr. Murdock had been training 
six little lads of his class to perform a simple 
drama, called “The Meeting at Bethlehem.” 
To understand the events which I propose 
to relate, some idea of the plot must be 
given. 

This is the argument as it appeared on the 
programme : 

The play supposes that on the night of the 
Nativity the Babe of Bethlehem calls to His 
side not only the shepherds, but also some 
innocent children. 

A Jewish lad and his lame brother, led by 
the mysterious influence of a star, have reached 
a spot near the stable of Bethlehem. The 
charmed stillness of the night, the songs of 
angels in the midnight air, the apparition of 
Uriel — all combine to impress upon their minds 
that something divine has happened, or is about 
to happen. This surmise is confirmed by two 
lads, one a Greek, the other a Koman, who 
have just come from the crib of Bethlehem, 
and who declare that they have just seen God 
in the form of an Infant. Despite the in- 
credulity of his two companions, Ariel, the 
young cripple, believes, makes an act of faith 


Round Christmas Footlights, 


29 


in the divinity of the Child, and straightway 
leaps up cured. 

Presently the hatred which the Jewish youths 
had thus far shown the Gentiles is dissipated, 
and urged on by the persuasions of the little 
Ariel, who seems to have caught at once the 
spirit of peace and good will which Christ 
newly born had brought to earth, the children 
effect a reconciliation and depart, at the mes- 
sage of the angel Uriel, to adore the Word 
Incarnate. 

DRAMATIS persons: 

Benoni, -v . Master Harry Verdin. 

Ariel, > Jews “ Clarence CoUingwood. 
Manahan, ^ . “ George Ring. 

Uriel, an angel . “ David Reade. 

Faustinus, I . “ Thomas Farrar. 

Aristos, 1 Gentiles John Steele. 

Mr. Murdock, the young scholastic who had 
undertaken the production of this play, was a 
character worthy of study. His influence over 
boys, whether large or small, was extraordi- 
nary. The secret of this influence it was hard 
to find. He was reticent, quiet, and, it would 
seem, most unobservant. He appeared to 
know little or nothing about his boys. And 
yet he frequently brought things to rights 


30 


New Faces and Old. 


without seeming to know that anything had 
been wrong. 

To give an instance. Early in the school 
year Mr. Murdock was explaining the forma- 
tion of the Latin verb. 

“There are four conjugations in Latin/ ^ he 
was saying. “The first is determined by the 
fact that the present infinitive ends in are, 
as amare, to love ; the second has the infinitive 
in ere long, as delere, to destroy ; the third has 
the infinitive in ere short — ” 

Just then a “Giant” fire-cracker exploded. 
There was a promise of great confusion, as a 
dozen youths started from their seats. Mr. 
Murdock’s hand went out with a gesture which 
settled them all back again. 

“As,” he continued, still holding the ges- 
ture, ‘‘explodere, to explode.” 

And then the boys could not make up their 
minds as to whether the teacher had borrowed 
his example from the event or not. With 
their sharp, eager, young eyes, they scanned 
his face to see whether a laugh would be in 
order. But Mr. Murdock’s face could express 
anything or nothing, as he pleased; and on 
this occasion it expressed nothing. Before 
they could resolve their doubts, the teacher 


Round Christinas Footlights, 


31 


went on with his remarks ; and for three days 
after it was held by certain of the class that 
Mr. Murdock had not noticed the explosion at 
all. 

Mr. Murdock was a man of power. 

The young gentleman who had set off the 
fire-cracker, though mystified, was not crushed. 
He had been sent to college against his will, 
and he had made up his mind to make it un- 
pleasant for his teacher. After the fire-cracker 
episode, he stuck the nib of a pen in his desk, 
and, at convenient, and, in his judgment, safe 
intervals, extracted archaic music from it by 
flipping it with his thumb-nail. 

The sound was clear and distinct, yet every- 
one was certain that Mr. Murdock failed to 
hear it. 

Presently the musician gave up in disgust. 
Then he took from his pocket a tiny pill-box 
filled with the heads of matches, and, with the 
circumspection characteristic of such youths, 
scattered them along the aisle between the 
rows of benches. And so, when recess time 
came, most of the boys went off with a re- 
port. 

During the hour after recess, this disorderly 
lad hummed, at first like a blue-bottle fly, but, 


32 


New Faces and Old, 


meeting with no attention, finally with a view 
to harmonic e:ffects. His rendition of ‘‘Annie 
Laurie,” though defective in the matter of 
time, was, upon the whole, melodious. 

Everybody, apparently, save Mr. Murdock, 
listened with wonder. 

By dinner-time it was held, as a probable 
opinion, that Mr. Murdock was losing his 
hearing. 

At noon the young scapegrace, instead of 
going directly to the lunch-room, sauntered 
alone into the yard. His movements lacked 
the vivacity which should distinguish his tender 
age. There were two reasons for this lack of 
vivacity : First, he was debating whether Mr. 
Murdock was preternaturally foolish or super- 
naturally wise. 

Secondly — 

“David,” came a voice from a window look- 
ing out upon the yard, “why aren’t you at 
lunch?” 

“Because, sir, I forgot to bring my lunch- 
basket.” Which was the second reason for 
his lack of vivacity. 

“Come in here, David, I want to see you,” 
continued Mr. Murdock, with a smile. With 
vivacity reduced to 7U7, David obeyed. 


Round Christmas Footlights. 


33 


“He’s found me out,” David soliloquized 
with a gloomy brow, “and now I’m going to 
catch it.” 

“Come in, David; it’s a lucky thing that I 
have some cakes and fruit to-day. I found 
them in my room when I came from class. 
Some friend left them here, but forgot to leave 
his name. Sit down and eat what you can; 
then take a rest and eat some more.” 

David put himself on the defensive at once. 

“I don’t want anything, sir, thank you.” 

“I hear, David,” continued the professor, 
not seeming to notice the answer, “that your 
mamma is sick.” 

“Yes, sir,” said David softening — what lad 
will not soften when he thinks of his mother ? — 
“she’s down with fever.” 

“I’m so sorry. Tell her that I’m coming to 
see her as soon as I can make time. I met 
your mother at the beginning of the year, and 
I liked her. You see, David, she was so fond 
of you.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said David, softening 
still more, and becoming polite in spite of 
himself. “She often talks of you, sir.” 

“And how is your httle sister?” continued 
Mr. Murdock. 


34 


New Faces and Old, 


‘‘First rate, sir; she sings all day.” 

“Does she sing Annie Laurie?” 

Dave shot a look at Mr. Murdock. There 
was nothing in the teacher’s face but an ex- 
pression of kindliest interest. 

“Yes, sir ; she’s always singing Scotch airs.” 

“They are my favorites, too,” said Mr. Mur- 
dock, as he rummaged in his desk. “Here, ’ ’ he 
continued, “is a picture of St. Cecilia for Ella. 
Tell her that St. Cecilia is the patron of music.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Dave with a bow. 

“And now, Dave, sit down and eat.” 

Dave yielded this point. 

“How do you like going to school here?” 
continued Mr. Murdock, as Dave began with a 
huge orange. 

“I don’t like it at all,” answered Dave, de- 
termined to make another struggle against be- 
ing carried away by this stream of kindness. 

“Don’t you? Where did you go to school 
before you came here ?’ ’ 

“To a public school — the Stoddard — I went 
there for three years and I liked it, and I want 
to go back again.” 

Dave finished his orange with a look of dis- 
gust, and taking up another, peeled it, with 
tragic gloom upon his countenance. 


Round Christmas Footlights. 


35 


“I don’t wonder tlnit you want to go back,” 
continued Mr. Murdock. ‘‘If I were in your 
place, I suppose I should feel just the same 
way mj^self.” 

Dave forgot to scowl as he stared at his 
teacher. 

“There are nice boys going to the Stod- 
dard,” Mr. Murdock added. 

“You bet there are!” said Dave emphat- 
ically. 

“Precisely; and you’ve come to like them 
very much, and you don’t care about being 
separated from your old playfellows.” 

“That’s just it, ’ ’ cried Dave with enthusiasm ; 
“all my chums go to that school.” 

“I don’t blame you a bit for feehng bad, 
Dave. It’s a sign that you have a good 
heart. If you were a cruel and a selfish boy, 
you wouldn’t mind. But, if you wait for a 
while, you will find that there are some good 
boys going here. After a few months you 
will have many friends, and then you won’t 
mind, and you will be happy ; and, best of all, 
you’ll please your mother, who is so anxious 
for you to attend school here.” 

“I didn’t think of it that way,” said Dave, 
attacking a third orange, and smiling radiantly. 


36 


New Faces and Old. 


“Try to think of it. And another thing, 
Dave ; don’t complain about school while your 
mother is ill. If she thinks that you are un- 
happy she will be unhappy too. You see she 
is such a fond mother.” 

“I’ll not say another word till she’s well. 
Say, these oranges are immense.” 

“Take another” 

“I think I will.” 

And he did. Then he turned to the apples, 
and finally consented to regale himself with a 
huge slice of fruit-cake. 

“And now, Dave,” said Mr. Murdock, lay- 
ing a hand on the lad’s shoulders and walking 
with him to the door, “next time you go to the 
chapel say a ‘Hail Mary’ for me, please. That 
will more than pay me for this lunch.” 

Dave went straight to the chapel, said the 
“Hail Mary” and many other prayers. It was 
the first time since coming to college that he 
had paid such a visit. He prayed well, for he 
was softened and humbled. Dave was not a 
bad boy; but, if he had been, I dare say he 
would have come away justified. Dave was 
conquered. 

He was also a very sick boy that night ; but 
that has nothing to do with this story. 


Round Christmas Footlights, 


37 


Now Dave was the angel with the black 
eye. 

II. 

The Undress Rehearsal. 

The angel, holding a hand over his right eye, 
came clattering in with: “Where’s the man 
who wi’ote this play ? ’ ’ 

The playwright almost blushed as several 
tiny fingers were pointed at him. 

“Why didn’t you give me more to say?” 
demanded the angel with a conciliatory smile. 

“All you’ve got to do,” remarked Cecil Col- 
lingwood, the cripple of the play, “is to try 
and look pretty; and it will be hard enough 
for you to do that.” 

“What’s the matter with your eye?” queried 
the author. 

“It’s blacked; I got it in a foot-ball rush; 
but I made five yards on that eye, and the 
fellow who gave it to me didn’t have any wind 
in him when I got off him.” 

In his tones there were sorrow for the eye, 
triumph for the windlessness of its giver. 

The angel here took Cecil Collingwood aside, 
and said, pointing with his crescent thumb at 
the author: — 


38 


JSfew Faces and Old, 


“Gee; he doesn’t look like a man that writes 
plays.” 

“How do men look that write plays?” asked 
Cecil with interest. 

“Oh, they look — they look diJfferent. Say, 
Mr. Murdock, how do you expect a fellow to 
talk with a black eye ? ’ ’ 

“It’s not impossible,” said the trainer. 
“Some people use their eyes too much when 
they talk.” 

“Say, Dave,” whispered Cecil, reverting to 
the author, “he looks amiable.” 

“I’ll bet our teacher could write a better 
play if he wanted to,” returned the angel. 
“What’s the sense of one angel? Our teacher 
would have turned out fifty.” 

The playwright, meantime, was watching 
the boys. He noticed that they divided into 
two groups. These groups changed constantly, 
and yet Harry Verdin and Tommy Farrar were 
never seen together. They were all lively 
youngsters, and rattled away boy-fashion, with 
an occasional interchange of pokes and digs, 
and the throwing about of hats and caps. 
They were quite natural. 

At length the rehearsal was begun. Verdin, 
as Benoni, helped his crippled brother Ariel 


Round Christmas Footlights. 


39 


to a seat upon what was supposed to be a 
stone, and the two fell to talking of the strange 
and beautiful night. 

They had not gone far in the dialogue when 
Tommy Farrar seated himself beside the one 
spectator. 

“Say, mister,” he began with a friendly 
smile, “are you going to write any more 
plays ? ’ ’ 

“Perhaps,” was the modest answer. 

“Well, if you do, bring in a lot of In- 
dians.” 

“How are you getting along with this play ? ” 

“Pretty well; I’m the Roman youth, and 
I’ve got to come on and tell Verdin, the fellow 
that plays Benoni, that I have seen the Infant 
Saviour born in a stable, and that He has come 
to bring peace. I tell him that the Babe is 
the Messiah. Verdin’s an old Jew, you know, 
and won’t believe. He hates me because I’m 
a Roman, and when I offer to shake hands he 
refuses, the old Sheeny! After a while his 
little brother, Ariel, who is a pious little Jew, 
gets cured by a miracle, and then Benoni 
apologizes to me for having been so rude, and 
we become friends. I don’t like to act with 
Verdin.” 


40 


New Faces and Old. 


“Why?” 

“Oh, nothing.” 

The angel now seated himself next to Tommy, 
and hinted that the play would not be “near 
so dead” if the writer had introduced a foot- 
ball game. 

“Where’s that angel?” called out Mr. Mur- 
dock from behind the scenes. “Come on here, 
angel, and do your part.” 

The angel hopped upon the stage, and with 
heavy and long strides advanced to the middle. 
Benoni, Ariel and Manahan fell upon their 
knees. 

“Oh, Mr. Angel,” cried kneeling Cecil Col- 
lingwood, clasping his hands, and turning his 
blue eyes first upon the angel, and then seraph- 
ically towards heaven, “What a beautiful black 
eye you’ve got.” 

“Behold,” bellowed the angel, glaring sav- 
agely at Cecil, “I bring you tidings of great 
joy — stop your monkeying, will you, Cecil 
Collingwood, or it will be the worse for you — 
say, Mr. Murdock, I can’t act with a black 
eye.” 

“If there were angels like you in heaven,” 
observed the unrufiled trainer, “I shouldn’t 
care about going there. Try that scene over. 


Round Christmas Footlights. 


41 


Take shorter and slower steps, and don’t 
announce the joyful tidings as though you 
were preaching a sermon on hell.” 

After five painful efforts, the angel suc- 
ceeded in satisfying the patient Mr. Murdock. 

The play now proceeded briskly, the quarrel 
scene between Verdin and Farrar being really 
good. 

But when the time of reconciliation arrived, 
the action became at once unsatisfactory. 
Manahan, it is true, and Aristos clasped hands 
cordially, and with great naturalness. But 
Benoni and Faustinus did not shake hands at 
all. They made a feint; their hands drew 
close together, but there was no clasp. Their 
cordiality was congealed. 

“Mr. Murdock,” said the author, “this thing 
won’t do at all. Farrar and Verdin haven’t 
the least idea of their parts. They’ve missed 
the spirit of it altogether.” 

“Have they?” 

“Of course; didn’t you notice that they did 
not shake hands ? ’ ’ 

“Didn’t they?” 

“You must have noticed it. The recon- 
ciliation was the iciest thing I ever witnessed.” 

Mr. Murdock paused for a moment. 


42 


New Faces and Old. 


“Let it go for the present,” he said: “I 
think it will be all right.” 

The anther went away vexed. 

“I’m going to get a mill-stone,” he mut- 
tered, “and I shall try to find out whether 
Mr. Murdock can discover the hole.” 

For he had seen at a glance that Yerdin and 
Farrar were not on speaking terms. 

As a matter of fact, these two young gentle- 
men had not spoken in many months. 

“Isn’t it queer that Mr. Murdock has never 
noticed the way those two fellows look at each 
other in di:fferent directions?” the angel had 
commented. “There are some things Mr. 
Murdock doesn’t notice at all.” 

But two rehearsals were remaining before 
the public performance, and yet Mr. Murdock, 
despite the bad showing, went his way quite 
contentedly. 

How much did he know? 

There was no man who could have answered 
that question. 

III. 

The Quarrel. 

Sing, O my Muse, the wrath of Tommy Far- 
rar against Harry, son of John Verdin, whole- 


Round Christmas Footlights, 


43 


sale hardware merchant, which impeded the 
progress of the Christmas play, and promised 
to set so many things awry. 

Leo XIII. had a great deal to do with this 
quarrel. 

Shortly after Tommy Farrar was newly 
breeched, he was sent to the boys’ department 
of St. Vincent’s Academy, and seated next to 
his intimate friend, Harry Verdin. They got 
on together nicely for some time. One day, 
however, in a burst of youthful vanity, Verdin 
said to Farrar: — 

“Oh, you ought to go out West; then you’d 
be brave. I’ve been out West, and I’ve seen 
real Indians with their paint on.” 

“Did they have tomahawks?” 

“Of course, and pipes of peace. And one 
of them shook hands with me. You never 
shook hands with an Indian. If you were to 
see a real live Indian, you’d run for your 
life.” 

As Verdin was speaking Farrar’s face had 
lighted up. 

“Pshaw,” he said, “Talk about shaking 
hands with an Indian ! I’ve done better than 
that — I’ve kissed the Pope ! ” 

“What!” cried Verdin. 


44 


New Faces and Old, 


“That’s just what. When I was about four 
years old, mamma and papa took me to Europe. 
We went to see the Pope, who lives there, and 
he was all in white, and was smihng. Mamma 
and papa knelt down, and kissed his slipper. 
Then mamma told me to kneel down too. I 
was only a baby, you know, and didn’t have 
any sense; and so I began to pout. Then 
mamma got red in the face, and looked awful 
scared, especially when I said: ‘I won’t kiss 
the Pope’s toe.’ Then the Pope laughed and 
caught me in his arms, and raised me to his 
face, and kissed me; and then I hissed him 
hack, and don’t you forget it, Harry Verdin, 
I hissed the Pope hach. And he looked so 
kind and good, that when he set me down I 
got on my knees on my own account and 
kissed both his toes. And mamma says that 
when I got up the Pope blessed me with tears 
in .his eyes. Talk about shaking hands with 
an Indian — pshaw ! ” 

Verdin mastered his astonishment, and 
said: — 

“Maybe it’s as much to shake hands with 
an Indian as to kiss the Pope.” 

“What!” bawled Farrar, “Harry Verdin, 
you’re a heathen and a republican! ” 


Round Ghynstmas Footlights, 


45 


“I’m as good a Catholic as you are.” 

“You’re not; a boy who talks about an In- 
dian as if he were Pope, ought to be fired out 
of the Church. I^m going to ask Sister about 
it.” And Farrar rushed over to Sister Mary 
in great excitement. 

“Sister, Harry Verdin says he’d rather 
shake hands with an Indian than kiss the 
Pope.” 

“I didn’t say any such thing,” sputtered 
Harry, “I said maybe.” 

“Sister, which is right?” pursued Farrar. 

“It’s a greater privilege even to see the 
Pope than to shake hands with the greatest 
Indian chief on the plains.” 

For the remainder of that year Harry felt 
that there was something wanting in his life. 
O, for a chance to kiss the Pope. Alas, his 
baby days were over. 

In the summer following Harry went to 
Europe. He was gone for two months. On 
reaching home he hastened at once to Tom- 
my’s house, and burst into his friend’s room 
in a glow of excitement. 

“How are you Tommy?” he bawled, as he 
caught Farrar’s hand. “I’m even with you 
now; I’ve been to Europe, and kissed the 


46 


New Faces and Old, 


Blarney Stone. Yah ! Talk about kissing the 
Pope. Kissing the Blarney Stone is out of 
sight.’’ 

Tommy was so rejoiced to see his chum 
after their long separation, that he allowed the 
question to pass for the present. 

But it came up again — in season and out of 
season. Tom and Harry gave some thought 
and much voice to their varying views, and, as 
commonly happens, the more they discussed 
the matter the more each became fixed in his 
own opinion. 

One day they fell upon the vexed question 
in the presence of some of their school-mates. 
Their auditors seemed to exercise an irritating 
influence. From words they came to blows, 
and when they were at length separated, Tom 
had a swollen lip and Harry a bleeding nose. 

From that day they went no more together, 
and when they chanced to meet they passed 
on with averted faces. Many months had 
gone by ; together they went from school to 
college, and yet the breach was wide as ever. 

Then they found themselves obliged to face 
each other day after day in preparation for 
the Christmas performance. 


Round Ch7dstmas Footlights. 47 


IV. 


Detected in Kindness. 

At six o’clock on Christmas eve, Harry 
Verdin was seated at the supper table. Con- 
trary to his custom he ate with much deliber- 
ation. He gave a sigh of relief as his brother 
Louie left the table ; another, as his little sis- 
ter followed suit. Then he looked wistfully at 
Alice, his senior by two years. She was 
dawdling, according to her amiable wont, and 
evidently in no hurry. 

“I say, Alice,” he at length remarked in a 
burst of inspiration; “did you see my costume 
for the play to-morrow night ? ’ ’ 

“No; has it come?” asked Alice breath- 
lessly. 

“It’s a said Harry solemnly. “I’ve 

spread it on my bed; but as soon as I’m 
through my supper, I’m going to take it down 
to the college, to put it — ’ ’ 

There was no need of finishing the sentence ; 
Alice had disappeared, and the sounds of a 
very hasty up-stairs-going were unmistakable. 

“Pa and ma,” began Harry impressively, 
“I’m going to confession right after supper.” 


48 


New Faces and Old. 


As his parents were prepared for this step, 
they evinced no surprise. 

“And I’m going to turn over a new leaf,” 
he added. 

“That’s good, my dear,” his mother ob- 
served. 

“I’ve been going wrong for a long time.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Verdin looked at their son 
with awakening interest. 

“The reason I’m telling you all this is be- 
cause I want your help. I’m in a box. You 
see it’s this way: Tommy Farrar and I had a 
fight ever so long ago.” 

“I remember the fact distinctly,” said Mr. 
Verdin. 

“I can see your face now, as it looked after 
that quarrel, my dear,” added the mother. 

“Yes; but there’s something that you don’t 
know. Ever since that fight Tommy and I 
have not been on speaking terms.” 

Mrs. Verdin looked meaningly at Mr. Ver- 
din ; his eyes were fixed upon the table-cloth. 

“That was wrong, Harry,” said Mr. Ver- 
din, in a constrained voice. 

“I guess so, sir; but I managed some way 
or other to keep my conscience a-going all the 
same till lately. You see Tommy and I act 


Round Christmas Footlights, 


49 


together in this Christmas play, where all the 
talk is about peace and good-will and brotherly 
lore. It says that Christ was born to draw us 
all together, and make us all brothers. Then 
there’s a part where Tom and I have to shake 
hands and change from enemies to friends. 
We can’t do that part a little bit. At first I 
didn’t mind the play. But the more I prac- 
ticed the more I felt that if Christ came to 
bring peace and love, I was a pretty poor sort 
of a Christian. The last few days I haven’t 
felt as though I could go to Communion, un- 
less I made up with Tommy. So I’ve got to 
do it, and I want you to help me.” 

Mrs. Verdin rose from her place, and kissed 
her boy; there was 'a suspicious film in her 
eyes. 

‘‘Harry,” said the father in tones at once 
soft and strange, “I shall be glad to help you 
in any way I can. It is wrong and sad for 
little boys to cherish spites.” 

“It isn’t spite, exactly, I think, papa. I 
still like Tom first rate ; but I don’t care about 
trying to make up. I’m ashamed to. Now 
here’s the way I’m going to get out of it. I 
want to make Tom a Christmas present; a 
silver watch would be just the thing. Most 


50 


New Faces and Old, 


the fellows in our class have watches. I know 
from some of the other fellows that Tom is 
awful anxious to get one. He was expecting 
one all along this Christmas ; the angel — ’ ’ 

“I beg your pardon?” put in Mr. Verdin. 

“I mean Dave Keade, you know. He plays 
an angel, and we call him by that nickname 
because he’s so unlike an angel. Well, Dave 
told me that Tom was blue because his mother 
told him he couldn’t get his watch just yet.” 

Mr. Verdin took a roll of bills from his 
pocket, and counted out a sum that made 
Harry’s eyes dance. 

Harry took the money, and disappeared. He 
should have made a speech of thanks ; but the 
fact is he did not. And yet neither father nor 
mother noticed the omission. 

“My dear,” said Mrs. Verdin, “Harry has 
unwittingly read you a sermon.” 

“I don’t see that; with Harry and Tom the 
whole cause of their quarrel was a bit of fool- 
ishness. But with Tommy’s father and my- 
self it is a serious case — a matter of justice. 
I’m not going to pay that man’s bills. Ac- 
cording to my view, the debt is wholly his. 
He called me a swindler — I can’t forget 
that.” 


Round Christmas Footlights. 


51 


“But, dear, he has arguments on his side; 
he thinks you’re in the wrong, and so do some 
of your best friends. Besides, even if he did 
call you a swindler, he was very much excited ; 
and you hinted that he, your life-long friend, 
was a thief.” 

“So he is — pretty near it, at least, accord- 
ing to my way of looking at it. At any rate 
the thing has gone too far; I can’t come down 
with any self-respect from the position I took ; 
and I know that he won’t give in. So there’s 
an end of it.” 

“Your case is much the same as Harry’s 
then. Harry admitted that he couldn’t bring 
himself to try to make up. It’s a question 
of pride. You told me the other day that 
Mr. Farrar is now in financial difliculties. It 
will be a sad Christmas for him. His money 
is going, and he has lost his life-long friend.” 

“It was his own fault,” said Mr. Verdin in 
harsh tones. “If it were not for our quarrel, 
I would help him in a minute.” 

“And yet, dear,” said Mrs. Verdin, in her 
most persuasive accents, “you and he were 
such good friends, and you break up your 
friendship all because of a beggarly three 
hundred dollars. He is in distress now, John; 


52 


New Faces and Old. 


it would be so magnanimous of you to make 
the first advances/' 

Mr. Verdin took up the evening paper. 

“You don’t understand business,” he re- 
marked. 

“Perhaps not; but I do understand that in 
most quarrels both parties are in the wrong, 
and I also know that when our Saviour came 
upon earth, He came to bring peace and love 
to business men too.” 

Mr. Verdin was now deeply engrossed in his 
evening paper. The wife sighed; there was 
no more to be said. 

One hour later Harry Verdin, wrapped in 
an ulster which reached far below his knicker- 
bockers, his head down in protection against 
biting wind and stinging sleet, and holding in 
his gloved right hand a tiny package, was 
making his way bravely and cheerfully toward 
Tommy Farrar’s house. It was his intention 
to deliver to the servant at the door the pack- 
age, carefully addressed to “Tommy Farrar, 
with love from Harry,” and then hurry away. 
As yet he dared not face Tom. But he could 
easily imagine Tommy’s joy, and he reveled 
in the ima^inino^ thereof. 

O O 


Round Christmas Footlights. 


53 


“I’ll bet Tom and I will be friends for life,” 
he soliloquized, and absorbed in this pleasant 
reflection he sank his head lower, and went 
forward at a still livelier gait. 

He was now upon the square at the further 
end of which stood Mr. Farrar’s house. The 
bracing walk had set his blood a-tingle; the 
prospect of Tommy’s delight at the gift had 
put him into a moral glow ; in short, despite 
settling darkness, and bitter weather, Harry 
was walking in the golden sunshine of imagin- 
ation. He was also walking upon a very slip- 
pery sidewalk. This thought occurred to him 
only when his feet went sliding in different di- 
rections. He tried to recover his balance un- 
availingly, lurched forward heavily, and then 
would have fallen, had he not plunged into 
the' arms of another youth. 

“I beg your pardon,” cried Harry, re- 
adjusting himself, and anxiously putting the 
package to his ear, “if you hadn’t saved me — 

good! it’s ticking — I might have ” 

Here Harry, having removed the package 
from his ear, and taken a more accurate look 
at his preserver, started back dramatically. 

In front of him, his face mantled with 
blushes, stood Tommy Farrar, apparently 


54 


New Faces and Old, 


dreadfully ashamed of himself. He was hug- 
ging a large envelope to his bosom in a way 
that made him look like a disconcerted chicken- 
thief. Harry’s ease of manner, too, it must 
be confessed, left much to be desired. As he 
stepped back he swept the package into the 
pocket of his coat, while rosy signals man- 
ifested themselves on a face already aglow 
from the lively tramp. 

There was a moment of silence. 

‘T-er was a-going to leave something at 
your house,” said Harry at length, getting out 
each word as though it were a bucket in a 
well; “but I didn’t want you to see me.” 

“And I was going to post a card — a Christ- 
mas card to you,” stuttered Tommy; “but I 
didn’t mean you should know. Here it is ; it 
isn’t much; but it’s the best I could do.” 

“And here’s the package. Tommy, and-and 
— we’re friends, aren’t we?” 

“Oh, Harry!” 

Then the two lads shook hands, and said 
some words which would be unintelligible on 
paper. 

“And now we’ll be able to do our parts well, 
won’t we ? ” said Harry. 


Round Christmas Footlights. 


55 


“You can just bet,” answered Tom. “For 
the last week I’ve been worrying about our 
quarrel. That play set me thinking ; it seemed 
to be preaching at me all the time.” 

“Same way with me,” said Harry. 

“And then yesterday, when Mr. Murdock 
told us that the best preparation that we could 
make for bringing out the play well would be 
to get the real spirit of love and peace which 
belongs to Christmas, I made up my mind that 
I’d have to go and ask your pardon.” 

“Same way with me,” put in Harry, “and 
now I’m ready to go and make a stunning 
confession.” 

“So am I, Harry; let’s go off at once.” 

Then arm in arm they went off to confes- 
sion; and I doubt not that the angels rejoiced. 

Y. 

“The Play’s the Thing.” 

Was it a bit of chance that Mr. Murdock 
put Mr. Verdin on the corner seat to the right 
of the main aisle, and Mr. Farrar on the cor- 
ner to the left, and both in the front row? At 
all events it was awkward for these gentlemen, 
who, when their faces were not buried in their 
programmes, stared straight ahead. 


56 


New Faces and Old. 


Behind the scenes great good humor pre- 
vailed. The actors now knew that Tom and 
Harry were reconciled, and having something 
of the angelic in them on this angelic day, 
they rejoiced exceedingly. Confidence was 
restored ; each felt that the play was sure to 
succeed. All, then, went merry as a marriage 
bell, till the angel produced a diversion by de- 
claring that he would not be painted. 

“You think I’m going out before all those 
people wearing a gown, and looking like a 
girl? Don’t you believe it!” he exclaimed 
indignantly. 

“All angels wear gowns,” said Clarence. 

“Well, this angel wears a gown too ; but he 
doesn’t paint his cheeks, no more than any 
other angel.” 

When Mr. Murdock came upon the group, 
the costumer was in a state of despair. At a 
word from his teacher, however, Dave con- 
sented to be painted. 

“If you say so. I’ll stand it,” he growled; 
“though I don’t want to look any prettier than 
I am.” 

“Aw!” exclaimed Clarence disdainfully, 
“You needn’t pretend you don’t want to look 


Round Christmas Footlights, 


57 


pretty ; it’s looking like a girl that’s bothering 
you.” 

Then Clarence just succeeded in dodging the 
angel’s shoe. 

The play opened well ; each little actor, full 
of the Christmas spirit, was unconsciously 
communicating it to the audience. Every 
word, every gesture, was measured ; but there 
was no measure to their play of feeling. 

The charm was unbroken till the angel ap- 
peared. Here, however, there seemed to be a 
collapse. The angel was to have glided out 
majestically, to have raised one graceful arm 
towards heaven, and in slow, solemn, silvery 
accents, announced the glad tidings of our 
Saviour’s birth. He departed considerably 
from his training. Coming out with a hurried 
step, he cast a wild glance at the audience, 
shriveled up, as it were; and, forgetting to 
raise his hand, in one breath which was also 
breathless made his little speech, and dis- 
appeared before the audience could fairly take 
in the situation. Mr. Murdock, who was 
prompter, seemed to have foreseen the turn of 
events. Before the angel had finished his an- 
nouncement he sent out a special messenger to 
twelve trusty youths whom he had stationed 


58 


New Faces and Old, 


within easy reach. His message was simply, 
“Give the angel an encore.’’ So when David, 
in an agony of stage-fright, had rushed off the 
stage, the applause was prolonged. In the midst 
of it Mr. Murdock obtained the angelic ear. 

“David,” he said, “they want you back. 
Go out slowly, say your part deliberately, and 
you’ll bring down the house.” 

David flushed with pleasure. While the red 
lights were still glowing he came back with 
solemn step upon the stage, lifted his arm, and 
delivered the glad tidings in so measured a tone 
that the whole house followed the speech with 
bated breath. His second appearance was en- 
tirely satisfactory, and, as he made a not 
ungraceful exit, the applause was sustained. 
Thus the threatened danger was averted ; de- 
feat was changed into victory. From that 
moment the dialogue proceeded as though each 
speaker were inspired. 

The quarrel scene between Verdin as Ben- 
oni, and Farrar as Faustinas, was animated. 
At length the moment of reconciliation came — 
the moment so much dreaded by the author of 
the play. 

According to prearrangement, the two were 
to have clasped hands. This they did, and the 


Round Christmas Footlights. 


59 


author’s sigh of relief was drowned in the inur- 
mer of satisfaction breathed by the audience. 

Of a sudden Harry Verdin introduced a new 
feature; he threw his arms about Farrar. 
Tommy responded, and there they stood, ac- 
tually hugging each other. 

Tom almost blubbered; the tears stood in 
Harry’s eyes. It was a reconciliation such as 
is seldom witnessed upon any stage. No won- 
der the audience was carried away. 

Mr. Farrar, gazing rapt at the tableaux, felt 
the tears rising to his eyes. He took out his 
handkerchief, and was about to pass it over 
his face when a touch on his shoulder caused 
him to turn his head. Mr. Verdin was stand- 
ing beside him, and his eyes looked watery 
too. 

“James,” said Mr. Verdin, “our boys up 
there are teaching us a lesson, and I’ve learned 
it; old friend, let’s shake hands.” 

And while every man, woman and child 
gazed in rapture and with applause upon the 
stage-scene, these two hard men of business 
clasped hands with a warmth which gave prom- 
ise that their enmity was gone forever. 


60 


New Faces and Old. 


THE REFORMATION OF GUSSIE 
HOOKER. 



HEN Miss Harvey heard the loud slam- 


ming of two doors, and the clatter as 


of iron-shod feet upon the corridor 


leading to her class-room, she knew that Mas- 
ter Tommy Playfair had returned from Chi- 
cago. Instinctively she drew herself up in her 
chair, compressed her lips, and braced herself 
for the coming shock. 

Tommy had gone to Chicago with his father 
just before the opening of school ; and for the 
first two weeks of class each day had seemed 
to Miss Harvey as a Sunday. A Sabbath calm 
pervaded her twenty little boys and eighteen 
little girls. Miss Harvey was pleased to style 
their conduct angelic. But now, as the clatter 
drew near, she felt that the Sunday-school 
days were over. 

“Where’s Gussie Hooker?” bawled Tom, 
his voice entering the room a second or two 


The Reformation of Gussie Hooker. 61 


before his chubby face appeared. “How de 
do, Miss Harvey? I’ve had a great time, but 
I’m glad to get back. Where’s Gussie? — oh, 
there he is in front. Say, Miss Harvey, can’t 
I sit next to him ? ’ ’ 

“You may not. Tommy,” answered Miss 
Harvey, shaking the hand which Tom, while 
running his eyes over the class, was good 
enough to extend towards her. “You two 
together would create too much confusion. 
He is troublesome enough ; and as for yourself, 
you seem to be more boisterous now after 
your trip than you were before you left for 
Chicago.” 

Tom, during these remarks, was bestowing 
nods and smiles upon various friends. He ap- 
peared to pay no attention whatever to Miss 
Harvey. It does not follow, however, that he 
did not take in every word. One of the prob- 
lems of life is to know when a youngster is not 
paying attention. 

“Look here. Miss Harvey,” said Tom, bring- 
ing his mouth to her ear, and sinking his voice 
to a confession-whisper, “I promised Gussie’s 
mother to take care of him. He needs care, 
you know. He’s the hardest nut on our 
block; and I want to reform him. If you 


62 


New Faces and Old. 


let me sit next him, I’ll do my best to be- 
have.” 

Tom made a swift reach for a fly on the 
table, missed him, and resumed his whis- 
per. 

“You know, I don’t like him any too much, 
but I like his mother. She’s got sense; she 
doesn’t kiss me every time I go to her house, 
the way some women do. She treats me hke 
a boy, and listens to me when I talk.” 

“Well, Tom,” said Miss Harvey, after a 
moment’s consideration, “I think lean depend 
upon your word.” 

“Yes, ma’am; I’ll do my best to be quiet. 
If I don’t, it will be because I forget.” 

“You may sit with Gussie.” 

Tom for very joy shook his tangled mane of 
black hair, his eyes sparkled, and his face re- 
laxed into a smile of gratitude. 

“Thank you, ma’am; I’ll stick to my word 
till Gussie is reformed.” 

“And then?” queried the teacher. 

“Why, then — then we’ll just start over 
again.” 

And thus, with a firm but temporary pur- 
pose of amendment, he seated himself beside 
Gussie. 


The Reformation of Gussie Hooher. 63 


“Did you have a good time in Chicago?” 
Gussie whispered, before Tom was well seated. 

“Sh ! ” hissed Tom, frowning horribly. 

“Ugh!” snarled Gussie; “you’re setting 
up to be pious.” 

Tom bit his lip ; this was a hard saying. 

“You’re afraid to talk,” continued Gussie. 

“I’m not,” growled Tom, in a whisper which 
reached every ear distinctly, “and if you don’t 
behave yourself better. I’ll punch your head 
after school.” 

II. 

Gussie was just turned eleven; but as re- 
gards depravity, he was far in advance of his 
years. He was not, like Tom, a “wild boy;” 
he was quiet, reserved, silent and sulky. When 
aroused, his temper was decidedly ugly; and 
he was then wont to employ expressions which 
gentlemen shrink from with natural repug- 
nance. His sense of honor, too, was low. A 
lie cost him nothing ; detection seldom brought 
a blush to his cheek. 

When one comes upon an American boy of 
this kind, one at once concludes that he has 
been shabbily treated. Lying and swearing 
are acquired vices for our boys. 


64 


New Faces and Old. 


Gussie had been shabbily treated. Born of 
a Protestant mother, his father, a Catholic, 
had insisted upon the baby’s baptism. Thus, 
as an infant, Gussie had entered the door of 
the church ; but from the moment of entrance 
he had been allowed to sit upon the door-sill. 
His father was careless in the matter, and left 
him entirely to Mrs. Hooker. 

And, to do her justice, Mrs. Hooker did 
very well according to her lights. At eight, 
Gussie was a charming little lad, pretty, polite, 
cultured according to the capacity of his youth, 
but without a touch of religious training. 
Then, in an evil hour, Mrs. Hooker sent her 
boy to a certain boarding-school. It had many 
advantages. Board and tuition were high, 
consequently it was most exclusive; some of 
the best St. Louis families had representatives 
there, consequently it was aristocratic. After 
two years at this academy, Gussie returned 
with a strong taste for cigarettes and profan- 
ity, and a decided facility for the distortion of 
facts. Then the eyes of his mother were 
opened. 

The father was vexed. He now insisted 
that his boy should get a Catholic training. 
Humbled and submissive, Mrs. Hooker as- 


Tlie Reformation of Gussie Hooher, 65 


sented, and Gussie at once became a pupil of 
Miss Harvey’s select school for boys. 

Gussie learned his catechism with ease. His 
memory, despite his habit of lying, was good. 
But when it came to carrying precept into 
practice, Gussie made it understood that he 
wished to be excused. He was an unlovely 
little boy at this period of his life, and I do 
not care about dwelling at any length upon his 
faults. Suffice it to say, that he had never 
gone to confession, and could not be induced 
to go by all the eloquent pleadings of zealous 
Miss Harvey. 

Then Tom came upon the scene. Two days 
after our young reformer’s return, Gussie un- 
dertook to bring a mouse into class. It oc- 
curred to him that it would amuse the boys to 
see Miss Harvey mount a chair, and place one 
trembling hand over a palpitating heart, and 
look silly and helpless. 

While Gussie was biding his time to free the 
mouse, that little creature discovered a hole in 
his pocket, and found its way deep down into 
the lining, where it began to tumble about, to 
the no small perplexity of the practical joker. 

“What’s the matter?” whispered Tom. 

“My mouse has got loose.” 


66 


New Faces and Old. 


Tom glanced with eager interest at the Uttle 
furrows that rose and broke upon the lower 
fringe of Gussie’s coat. At once two or three 
other boys noticed the phenomenon. There 
was a craning of necks, and a fastening of 
eyes upon the curious jacket. Gussie flushed 
red with anger and confusion. 

Miss Harvey followed the direction of the 
general gaze, and saw the unusual movement 
in the recesses of the jacket. 

“Gussie, what’s the matter with your 
jacket?” 

“There’s a cat in it, ma’am,” answered 
Gussie promptly. 

Gussie had no sense of humor; so he won- 
dered very much when the boys broke into a 
shout. 

“Why don’t you tell her it’s an elephant,” 
suggested Tom. 

“Gussie,” repeated Miss Harvey, “try to 
think before you answer. Now, tell me the 
truth.” 

“It’s a frog I’m taming for my circus — 
honor bright. Miss Harvey. I tied up his legs 
so that he couldn’t hop about, but he got loose. ’ ’ 

Meanwhile, Tom disgusted with his school- 
mate’s lying, resolved to put a stop to further 


The Reformation of Gussie Hooker. 67 


variations from the truth. Also, he wanted to 
enjoy a little fun ; so while Gussie was narrat- 
ing the story of his imaginary bullfrog for 
his fictitious circus, Tom whipped out his 
knife, turned up the lower part of Gussie’ s 
jacket, cut a neat slit — 

If Miss Harvey did not stand upon a chair, 
it was not because her natural impulses failed 
to point in that direction . She held her ground, 
but turned quite pale, while twenty boys tum- 
bled and pushed and stamped about the floor. 
I shall say nothing about the conduct of the 
girls on this occasion. It was only after the 
mouse had been knocked senseless by Tom 
Playfair, who carried it out swinging it jauntily 
by the tail, that Miss Harvey addressed herself 
to restoring order. 

It was capital fun, the boys thought. How- 
ever Tom and his charge had reason to change 
their opinion later in the day. They were re- 
quired to stay after class, and commit to mem- 
ory twenty lines of Hamlet’s soliloquy. 

“You had no business to slash my coat,” 
remarked Gussie, as he and Tom sat in the 
deserted class-room. 

“I did; it was a good action. It was vir- 
tuous,” retorted Tom. “You see I wanted to 


68 


JSfew Faces and Old. 


stop your lying. If I hadn’t slit your coat, 
you’d have told more lies. You’re the biggest 
fibber I know of.” 

“But look at my jacket,” urged Gussie, 
taking no note of the brutal animadversions on 
his veracity. 

Tom glanced at the coat cheerfully. “You 
just go and get that coat mended, and send 
the bill to my pa. — ‘To be or not to be, that is 
the question. Whether — ’ Now you keep 
quiet and stop fooling till I learn these lines. 
I want to go over to Charley Mackey’s yard; 
he’s got a billy-goat from Texas.” 

“You ought to see the billy-goat that was at 
our military school,” Gussie observed. 

“Was he from Texas?” 

“No; he came from Greenland. He was 
bigger than my pony.” 

“That so? ” 

“Yes; and you can just believe he was 
strong. You ought to see him butt.” 

“I’ll bet he couldn’t beat a Texas billy.” 

“Couldn’t he now? Like fun, he couldn’t. 
I saw him knock a bull senseless with one lick.” 

Tom arose, scooped some grains of chalk 
from the gutter that lined the black-board, and 
said: “Take that back, or I’ll chalk your face.” 


The Reformation of Gussie Hooker, 69 


“It wasn’t a bull, it was a cat,” said Gussie. 

“You ought to wash your mouth out,” said 
Tom disdainfully. “Say, Gussie,” he contin- 
ued in a milder tone, “I’ve got a plan. Let’s 
get off and go see the billy-goat. You go to 
Miss Harvey, and promise her you’ll go to 
confession, then she’ll let you off, and I’ll get 
off too.” 

“Oh, I’ll promise,” said Gussie; “that’s 
easy.” 

“But you must mean it. You’ve got to go, 
if you promise.” 

“No, I haven’t.” 

“I’ll bet you have; and I’ll see that you go; 
then when you go, you’ve got to make up your 
mind to stop cursing and lying. You can’t go 
to heaven if you don’t.” 

“I didn’t ask to go to heaven.” 

Here Gussie moved away rapidly — Tommy 
had made another scoop for chalk-dust. 

“Won’t you go and promise,” pursued Tom, 
“and mean what you say?” 

“I don’t intend to stop cursing — I can’t 
help it when I’m mad, and I don’t see so much 
harm in a lie ; it gets a fellow out of lots of 
scrapes.” 

Tom gazed at him in undisguised wonder. 


70 


New Faces and Old. 


“Well,” he said at length, “if you don’t 
intend to make a promise that you mean, I 
shan’t have anything to do with you.” 

“I don’t care,” sulked Gussie. 

“All right,” said Tom; “just the same that 
billy-goat is a dandy.” 

This strong praise from Tom set Gussie to 
reflecting. Presently he said : 

“Say, Tom, I don’t care if I do make that 
promise to go to confession.” 

“Honor bright? ” 

‘ ‘ Cross my heart three times. ’ ’ Gussie, with 
much solemnity, suited the action to the 
word. 

“Well, I’ll see to it that you go, if you 
promise.” 

As Tom had anticipated. Miss Harvey was 
quite willing to let them off under the proposed 
terms ; and so Gussie Hooker has not learned 
Hamlet’s soliloquy to this day. 

Arm in arm the two tripped away, examined 
the billy-goat very earnestly, and had, in short, 
a good time, somewhat marred and curtailed, 
it is true, by the fact that the goat taking 
things, as it were, into his own hands, upset 
Tom, and put him and his companion to an 
ignominious flight. 


The Reformation of Gussie Hooker. 71 


“Never mind,” Tom said, as he dusted him- 
self off, and examined a bruise on his hand, 
“I’ll get even with that billy after I’ve seen 
you through your confession.” 

“You needn’t mind about that confession.” 

“Needn’t I? I just will all the same. 
Next Thursday after class, I’m going to bring 
you over to the church, and I’ll stay behind 
you there till you go into the confession house, 
and come out again. You’ve got to go through 
with it.” 

Gussie snarled, and muttered something to 
himself. 

After class, on Thursday afternoon, there 
was a great commotion in front of Miss Har- 
vey’s select school. All the small boys were 
gathered in a semi-circle about the fence, gaz- 
ing upon two strugglers. One was holding 
with hands and feet to the iron railings. The 
other was tugging away in a desperate en- 
deavor to get his adversary free of the fence. 

Beyond the crowd of boys stood nearly all 
the little girls, at a distance in keeping at once 
with their timidity and their curiosity. They 
gave frequent little shrieks of horror, and ut- 
tered loud exclamations of disapproval. In a 
word, they were enjoying the spectacle more 


72 


New Faces and Old, 


than the boys themselves. The intelligent 
reader hardly needs to be told that Gussie 
Hooker was clinging to the fence, and that it 
was Tommy who was clinging to Gussie. And 
very red and disgusted and breathless Tommy 
was. Gussie himself was white with fear, and 
clung to the rails as a drowning man to a 
straw. Tom could not dislodge him. 

“Look here, Gussie Hooker,” he flamed 
out, “if you don’t come along. I’ll thrash you 
and carry you all the way.” 

Just then the girls started for their respect- 
ive homes, with a sudden and striking loss of 
interest in the quarrel. Miss Harvey was ap- 
proaching the scene of trouble with all the 
haste consonant with her dignity. 

The boys were apprised of her coming by 
the utterance of a rude translation of “Cave” 
from a youngster on the outskirts. They were 
too honest to give up all show of interest; 
nevertheless they drew back promptly to allow 
their teacher passageway. 

“Little boys I little boys I” she exclaimed. 
“What’s this I see? Such a scene is disgrace- 
ful I” 

“Yes, ma’am, that’s just what it is,” cried 
Tom, letting go his quarry, and gesticulating 


The Reformation of Gussie Hooker, 73 


at Miss Harvey, while the luckless Gussie con- 
tinued to hug the fence. “You know the 
promise Gussie made you; now he won’t keep 
it, and I’m trying to bring him up to time. He’s 
been mean; and I was tempted to lick him.” 

“Go home, boys,” said Miss Harvey to the 
interested crowd. As Miss Harvey turned 
toward the boys there was a quick disappear- 
ance of skirts around the corner. “Tommy 
and Gussie,” she continued, “come with me.” 

Looking very flustered and bedraggled, the 
reformer and his charge followed Miss Harvey 
into the school-house. 

The teacher had no little trouble in persuad- 
ing Tom that in the matter of bringing a sinner 
to confession moral force alone should be em- 
ployed. Tom was at length convinced. 

The upshot of it all was that our hero suc- 
ceeded in eliciting a promise from Gussie to 
go to confession on the following Thursday. 
They shook hands over it, and Gussie crossed 
his heart three times three. 

“You’ll help me, Tom?” 

“Of course; I know how it’s done, and 
we’ll get the thing up in style. I’m glad I 
didn’t lick you ; you’re a sickly looking sort of 
a fellow, and look as if you’d die young.” 


74 


New Faces and Old. 


In saying this, Tom was not aware that he 
was repeating, in unscientific language, the 
words of Gussie’s family doctor, one of the 
foremost physicians of St. Louis. 

III. 

It was at this period of his dazzling career 
that Tom betrayed an extraordinary interest in 
arithmetic. Miss Harvey noticed with joy that 
he was busy at all odd moments of class with 
his slate. That he was figuring was clearly ev- 
ident. He would, with many taps and scratches, 
jot a few figures upon his slate; throwing 
down the pencil, he would sweep back his 
mane, cast his dark eyes not ecstatically but 
ruminatively toward the ceiling, and begin to 
mumble to himself. Then he would give his 
head a shake, lower his eyes, and start to 
counting on his fingers, which he held in front 
of his face. Generally these proceedings ended 
in a growl. Gussie meantime watched Tom 
with vivid interest. The growl meant that 
Tom had gone beyond the range of his mathe- 
matical calculations. Reluctantly he would 
leave his seat, go to Miss Harvey’s desk — 
where something like the following conversa- 
tion would ensue: 


The Reformation of Gussie Hooher, 75 


“Miss Harvey, how many are nine times 
eight?’’ 

“Seventy-two.” 

“Is it ? I thought it was sixty-four. You put 
down the seven and carry the two, don’t 
you?” 

“Just the opposite. You put down the two 
and carry the seven.” 

“It would be easier to carry the two; that’s 
the way with multiplication ; they make every- 
thing hard.” 

“It is not hard, Tom, if you study it prop- 
erly.” 

“But I am studying it, and it is hard. Say, 
I can catch you. — Twelve times one are twelve 
aren’t they?” 

“Certainly.” 

“And you carry the one, don’t you?” 

“Of course.” 

“Now I’ve got you,” cried Tom with a fin- 
ger gesture which came within a little of in- 
juring Miss Harvey’s right eye. “If what you 
say is true, then twelve times one are thirteen.” 

Miss Harvey looked astonishment. 

“I’ll prove it. Twelve times one are twelve 
and carry one. Twelve and one carried make 
thirteen.” 


76 


New Faces and Old, 


Then Tom returned to his seat, smiling so 
intensely that one would think he had never 
suffered from the pangs of studying the multi- 
plication table. 

At home these were happy days for Aunt 
Meadow. After their early supper Tom would 
take out his slate and arithmetic, and declare 
his intention of studying. The Playfair man- 
sion had never come upon such peaceful days 
since the youthful son and heir by a pro- 
digious squall announced his arrival into the 
world, of which he had ever since continued to 
be a noisy ornament. 

“Aunt,” said Tom on the third night of his 
self-imposed studies, “is it a sin to smoke 
cigarettes ? ’ ’ 

“Not exactly. Tommy dear. But if your 
papa were to forbid you, it would be sinful to 
smoke them, because it would be an act of dis- 
obedience.” 

“You needn’t talk about me, auntie; I gave 
up long ago,” said the moralist of eight. “If 
your pa forbade you to smoke, and you were 
to go and smoke anyhow, it would be one sin 
of disobedience, wouldn’t it?” 

“Yes, dear.” 


The Reformation of Gussie Hooker, 77 


“And if your pa and your ma were both to 
forbid you, it would be two sins, wouldn’t it? 
Then Miss Meadow had to explain that in re- 
gard to the child the father and mother could 
be considered as one. Tom nodded intelli- 
gently. 

“Oh, may be I won’t catch Miss Harvey to- 
morrow. I’ll prove to her that two times one 
are one,” and Tom fell to at his slate with 
fresh zeal. 

Miss Meadow, in passing by Tom, happened 
to let her eyes fall upon his slate. 

Aiteen Sigarets. 

These words stood out in bold and artless 
characters . Miss Meadow bent down and read : 

Aiteen sigarets every day for 2 j/ears=2X 366=730; aiteen X hy 
730=13,140, which is the anser, and the number he smoked. 

“Tommy, what in the world are you doing ? ’ ’ 

“It’s a most solemn secret,” answered Tom, 
with awe upon his face. “You didn’t had 
ought to look. Don’t speak to Uncle Meadow. 
Maybe I’ll tell you some day.” 

Had Tom been sixty and secretary of State, 
he could not have been more dignified and sol- 
emn. For three days, then, he studied, and 


78 


New Faces and Old, 


went about wrapped round in mystery. He 
was changed in everything except his appetite ; 
that was unfailingly good. 

Gussie, too, was on his best behavior. He 
was quiet, studious, and particularly interested 
in his catechism. His thin, yellow, pinched 
little face, on one occasion, was all aglow when 
Miss Harvey spoke of the Saviour’s love of 
little children. 

“Did Christ love children my age?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, dear,” answered Miss Harvey, quite 
moved by the earnest pathos of the sunken 
eyes. “He loves all little children who try to 
be good.” 

And then Tom wrote on his slate : 

“And your tryin’ to be good like forty, 
Gussie.” 

On Wednesday there were several absentees. 
When Thursday came, the number was in- 
creased. Diphtheria had broken out with un- 
usual virulence among the little ones of the 
West End of St. Louis. 

However, Gussie and Tom were on hand. 

“Children,” Miss Harvey said that after- 
noon, “owing to special reasons, concerning 
which I have informed your parents, there will 


The Reformation of Gussie Hooker, 79 


be no school for a week or two. Notice will 
be sent you when we judge proper to reopen,^’ 

Tom led the chorus of shouting which greeted 
this announcement ; but he did not lose sight 
of Gussie, who, strange to say, betrayed little 
or no enthusiasm. 

“Say, Gussie, have you got that paper all 
right that I gave you ? ’ ’ he inquired as they 
came out upon the street. 

“No, I’ve burned it ; but I know it by heart. 
I don’t feel like going to confession, I’ve got 
a headache and feel bad all over.” 

“Don’t mind, Gussie; the priest I’m going 
to bring you to is nice as pie. He’s never 
cross, and you’ll be done in a minute; and 
when you’re done you’ll feel better; I always 
do. Maybe it will cure you.” 

“Well, I’m going to stick to my promise.” 

“Don’t forget about your lying and curse- 
words,” continued Tom gravely. 

“I’ve got everything fixed.” 

“You needn’t be so scared,” continued Tom. 

“What makes you think I’m scared?” 

“You look pale.” 

“I feel pale,” returned Gussie seriously, 
“because I feel sick. But I’m not scared. 
Don’t you believe it.” 


80 


New Faces and Old. 


They entered the church. Tom having sup- 
plied Gussie with his own prayer-book, and 
pointed out the proper prayers, with an injunc- 
tion to “read ’em slow,” stationed himself be- 
hind his penitent, and watched him vigilantly. 

After the lapse of five or six minutes Tom 
arose from his knees, advanced to Gussie’s 
side, and said : 

“Have you made your act of contrition?” 

“Yes,” whispered Gussie. 

“And have you made up your mind to be- 
have yourself properly ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“No more lying, no more cursing?” contin- 
ued Tom severely. 

“Cross my heart, Tom.” 

“Then you’ll do,” concluded Tom coolly. 
“Go right in now, and I’ll wait for you.” 

I have not the least doubt that Gussie made 
an excellent confession, though the confessor 
must have been astonished by its unconven- 
tionality. Gussie knew his catechism quite 
well, and Tom had thrown in his “experience.” 

The penitent came out a quarter of an hour 
later, very pale, but with a loveliness about 
his pinched features which was the loveliness 
of peace and wholesome sorrow. He threw 


The Reformation of Gussie Hooker. 81 


himself on his knees, and, judging by exterior 
signs, gave himself up to fervent prayer. 

Tom gazed upon his penitent with great 
complacency. Suddenly Gussie slipped from 
the kneeling-bench to the floor. 

Tom rushed to his side, and essayed to lift 
him up. The noise brought out the priest. 
He gazed upon the pallid face as he lifted the 
child in his arms. 

“It’s a faint,” he said; “the boy looks 
really ill.” 

“It’s his first confession,” explained Tom. 

“Oh,” exclaimed the priest; “that has hap- 
pened before.” 

The sacristan, in obedience to a signal given 
him by the confessor, now came up with some 
water. With but little trouble Gussie was 
brought to. 

“How do you feel, Gussie?” asked Tom. 

“Happy!” said Gussie feebly, with the 
long-lost loveliness of his early days in his face 
and smile. 

“Are you able to walk?” asked the priest, 
setting him down gently. 

“Oh, yes. Father; I’m all right now. I’ve 
often fainted before. My head feels awful 
light; but maybe that’s because I’m happy.” 


82 


New Faces and Old, 


“Well, my dear, you had best go home at 
once. You look ill.’’ 

“I’ll take him home, sir,” volunteered Tom. 
“He’s in my charge anj^how. Good-by.” 

The two left the church together. 

“I feel pretty sick,” began Gussie, “but I 
don’t mind. I’m going to make a new start, 
Tom.” 

“Gussie,” said Tom, with a determination 
to show his love and approbation in one re- 
mark, “I’m mighty glad I didn’t lick you last 
Thursday.” 

Both felt that the conversation was becom- 
ing sentimental, so Tom branched off to ex- 
plaining a new method he had discovered of 
curving a ball. This topic lasted until they 
reached Gussie’ s home. 

“Why, my dear, what has happened to 
you?” cried Mrs. Hooker, as Tom and Gussie 
walked into her sitting-room. 

“He’s sick; but he’s been to confession,” 
explained Tom 

“Yes, mamma; and I’m so glad I went. 
Tom made me. And I’m not going to disobey 
you any more, mamma, and I’m going to try 
to be like Tom. He’s honest and square, and 


Tlie Reformation of Gussie Hooher, 83 


doesn’t tell lies, and is the best ball player of 
his size in our school.” 

“That’s so, I guess,” said Tom. 

Then Gussie kissed his mother with unusual 
affection. As she held him to her bosom she 
noticed the sweet, calm look in his eyes ; and 
her own filled with tears. She strained him 
to her breast. 

“Ah, my little dear, I feel like going to con- 
fession myself,” said the Protestant mother. 

“I’ll prepare you, ma’am,” said Tom cheer- 
fully. 

As Mrs. Hooker released Gussie, the little 
fellow staggered and would have fallen. 

The mother caught him again, gazed in- 
tently at his face, and then a startled look 
came upon her own. 

“Good-by, Tom ; you must go at once. My 
little boy, I fear, is very, very sick.” 

“Good-by, Gussie,” said Tom. 

“Good-by, Tom,” said Gussie in a low 
voice, “good-by.” He held out a little hand, 
which Tom took in his, returning pressure for 
pressure. “I’m quite sick, Tom; but I’m 
very happy, and I’m not afraid of anything.” 

When Tom saw Gussie again the eyes were 
closed, and a crucifix was between the motion- 


84 


New Faces and Old, 


less fingers. Pure white lilies made the room 
fragrant and beautiful. Upon the set face was 
a beauty and a calm and an innocence that 
suggested infinite loveliness. 

That beauty and calm and innocence did not 
belong to the boy Tom had known two weeks 
before ; but they belonged to him forever now, 
thanks to the Precious Blood of Jesus, for they 
had been restored by sacramental power. 


Little Brother,'^ 


85 


‘TITTLE brother;^ 

(A VARIATION UPON A LEGEND.) 


HE fumes of incense followed the two 
acolytes as they went from the chapel 
into the court-yard of the monastery — 
the fumes of incense, and the fervent Gregorian 
chant of the monks at Vespers. The night was 
well on. A few stars and one bright planet 
shone from the misty sky. Here and there 
the glimmer of a light from the cells threw 
into relief the long black shadows of the mon- 
astery. 

As the lads, arm in arm, walked slowly on- 
ward in the path of light which streamed from 
the open chapel door, their every feature stood 
out clear-cut and distinct from the darkness 
that walled them around. And very beautiful 
features they were, for upon them were writ- 
ten in the characters which nature employs in 
her most gracious moments, sweetness, win- 
ningness, modesty, and, most striking of all, 



86 


New Faces and Old, 


that lovely expression of innocence which not 
only does not know, but which will not know, 
evil. The two boys were very delicate and 
slender. Their long dark hair and black eye- 
lashes emphasized the pallor of their cheeks, 
and their large serious eyes. They were or- 
phans, and, as could be seen at a glance, broth- 
ers. Four years ago their father and mother 
had died, the one within a few weeks of the 
other, leaving them under the guardianship of 
their uncle. Father Bernard, the prior of the 
monastery. 

And indeed Father Bernard had acquitted 
himself well of his task. They had grown in 
the very shadow of the tabernacle, of the tab- 
ernacle which, very early, they had learned to 
love. There reposed the “dear Infant Jesus,” 
had their mother told them years before, and 
when they, little prattlers of three and five 
years, had asked further about the “dear In- 
fant Jesus,” she had told them the sweet story 
which St. Luke has given us; and, as they 
listened, their little hearts were warmed into 
love which had never grown cold from their 
baby days, and their tender, open imaginations 
— what poet’s imagination is as open as a 
child’s? — had been touched into an elevation 


‘^Little Brother,'^ 


87 


and purity which promised to endure through 
life. 

And now, as they were pacing up and down 
the court-yard, John, the elder, said : 

“Harry, it is only a few hours from mid- 
night, and then it is Christmas. I wonder 
whether the night when the dear Infant Jesus 
was born was like this ? I fancy it must have 
been clearer.’’ 

“I was thinking about it all during benedic- 
tion,” rejoined Harry, “and then I got to look- 
ing at the Sacred Host just over my head, and 
I began to think how nice it would be if I 
could only see Him as He used to be when He 
was a little bit of a boy like myself. Wouldn’t 
you like to see Him just once, John?” 

“Mamma sees Him all the time,”' said the 
elder brother, softly. 

“Yes; and she sees us, too,” Harry added. 
“I try to remember it always, and I feel so 
glad to think that she is watching me.” 

“Why, Harry?” 

“Because, I always try to think as if mamma 
were looking at my thoughts — and I know she 
must be pleased when God lets her see my 
thoughts. Oh, listen, isn’t it beautiful?” 
He paused as he spoke and turned his face. 


88 


New Faces and Old, 


lighted up with appreciation, towards the chapel 
door. “How nice the Magnificat sounds to- 
night. It never sounded so beautiful be- 
fore.’’ 

misericordia ejus a progenie in proge- 
nies timentihus eum,’’ It was a fervent burst 
of triumphant chords. 

“It does sound strangely beautiful,” as- 
sented John in a whisper which grudged the 
loss of a single chord or word. “But after all 
it is natural. All these holy men are thinking 
of the dear little Infant. How I should like 
to hear them sing the Benedictus, too; it is 
nothing but a song in honor of the dear Infant 
Jesus.” 

And now, with faces turned towards the 
chapel, they listened eagerly while the glad 
canticle rolled forth in a full chorded swell of 
harmony ; and, while they listened, their pallid 
faces flushed for very joy, and their hearts 
were lifted and attuned to lofty prayer; for 
they were listening to strains which combined 
in almost perfect proportion lofty music and 
sublime words Avith the fervor of simple faith. 

^^Suscepit Israel puerum suum, recordatus 
misericordioB suce.' ’ 


‘^Little Brother. 


89 


“If it sounds so beautiful on earth, what 
must it be in heaven?” murmured Harry. 

As they stood in rapt attention, there ap- 
peared at the door of the chapel the form of a 
child. The light seemed to fall full upon his 
features. He stood facing them for a mo- 
ment, and then came toward them with noise- 
less steps. But even as he stood at the sill of 
the chapel door, the two brothers had an op- 
portunity of scrutinizing his features. Like 
theirs, his hair was long; unlike theirs, it 
was very fair in color, and sparkled in the 
light as though it were shot with gold. 
His eyes were large and full of tenderness. 
His features were singularly delicate, and 
marked with a strange beauty. As he ad- 
vanced towards the brothers, there was a smile, 
tender and subdued, upon his face, a smile the 
like of which the two lads had never seen be- 
fore. The child was a stranger to them, and 
yet when they caught that smile, they felt that 
they were meeting a dear friend. 

“Welcome, little boy,” said John; “I am 
John, and this is my little brother Harry.” 

With a gesture of winning grace, the new- 
comer took the eagerly extended hands of the 
two brothers, and pressed them gently to his 
bosom. Again he smiled. 


90 


New Faces and Old. 


“You look so like my mother/’ said Harry, 
gazing frankly into the blue eyes that met his 
in a glance of love. 

“So you do,” added John. “Only she was 
dark, and you are fair. But it is the look. 
When mother used to tell us of the ‘dear little 
Infant,’ her face looked so hke yours. Tell us 
your name, little friend.” 

“Call me little brother, my brothers,” an- 
swered the child, in a voice so musical that at 
its sound all that was lovely and exquisite in 
the thoughts and memories of Plarry and John 
seemed to vibrate in answering harmony. 

“You shall be our brother from now on, 
little friend,” said John. “Shall he not, 
Harry?” 

“Yes,” assented Harry; “we like you to be 
with us. John and I, before you came, were 
listening to the singing of the Magnificat, and 
it made us feel so happy ; but now that you 
are with us, I feel a thousand times happier 
than I did when I was listening to the song. 
So you must be our brother. It is easy for us 
to think it, for you look so like our dear mother. 
And now, little brother, do you know any- 
thing about Christmas ? ’ ’ 

“It is the day I love,” answered the child. 


Little Brother,'' 


91 


“Then you must talk to us about it/’ said 
John. 

“Tell us the story about the birth of the 
dear little Jesus,” added Harry, eagerly. 
“And be sure to bring: in the angels.” 

Walking between them, and holding each 
by the hand, “little brother” began to speak, 
and the wind which had been sighing fell, as 
though it were pausing to listen. Even their 
mother had never spoken as the child spoke ; 
and, while they listened, Harry and John 
caught such harmony, faint and low, from on 
high, that they were awed and enraptured. 
“Little brother” told the sweet story, the old, 
old story, as though he himself had been an 
eye-witness. Falling from his lips, there was 
about it a strange, mystic, indefinable charm. 
And all the while those strange harmonies, 
low and faint and sweet, dropped down, all but 
spent, from the misty heaven. Presently the 
child ceased to speak ; and, as though it had been 
a preconcerted signal, every bell in the monas- 
tery broke into a gladsome chiming ; a strange 
light burst through the floor of heaven, and 
from the chapel came the voices of the monks, 
solemn but jubilant, singing the Adeste Fideles, 
And as they concluded the stanza with venite 


92 


New Faces and Old, 


adoremus Dominum, the light in the heavens 
seemed to spring and shiver and glow as though 
it were a living thing, till, in a few seconds, 
the whole sky was glorious; then, in a full 
burst of harmony, there fell upon the ears of 
these lads the songs of angels, music such as 
the great masters had never even imagined. 
The heavenly strain was short-lived ; it ceased 
as suddenly as it had begun, the diffused light 
gathered itself together into one point, disap- 
peared — and in the silence and night that suc- 
ceed ‘‘little brother” stood gazing on his trans- 
fixed companions. 

“O, thank you, thank you,” cried John. 
“There was never anything like it since the 
first Christmas. Come with us now, little 
brother, and we shall visit the dear little Je- 
sus.” 

As they went towards the chapel, their 
strange visitor said: 

“I must go away soon.” 

“Then we shall go with you,” cried John. 

“No, my brothers; not yet. Whither I go 
you cannot go.” 

‘ ‘Yes, we can, ’ ’ said Harry, confidently ; ‘ ‘we 
know that where you are, everything will be 
as it should be; and so we want to go too.” 


‘‘Little Brother y 


93 


“But very soon you are to serve the Christ- 
mas masses of Father Bernard.’^ 

“That is true,’’ assented Harry; “and we 
would not miss those masses for anything. But 
after that you must come for us, and then we 
shall go home with you.” 

The child smiled, and said, “Yes ; to-morrow 
I shall return, and then you shall come home 
with me.” 

They entered the chapel, and fell upon their 
knees in a prayer that was ecstasy. An hour 
had passed when a trembling hand touched the 
kneeling brothers. They turned and saw the 
aged prior, but the child had disappeared. 

On tiptoe, obedient to the prior’s signal, 
they left the chapel. 

“My little ones,” he said reprovingly, “you 
should have been in bed this long time.” 

“Oh ! but if you had heard the way our little 
brother told us mamma’s story,” said Harry, 
“you would have felt like praying forever. It 
was beautiful.” 

“Yes, but it was unkind of our little brother 
to slip away, John added. “Besides, he prom- 
ised to take us home with him to-morrow.” 

“Of whom are you talking,” asked the 
prior. 


94 


New Faces and Old. 


The brothers told their story with animation 
and eagerness. The prior listened very silently. 

“And now,” he said, when they had come 
to an end, “tell us the story of the dear little 
Jesus in the way your little brother told it.” 

Suddenly, the brothers looked at each other 
in great perplexity. 

“Isn’t it strange!” exclaimed John. “It 
was all so beautiful ; and now I cannot think of 
one word that he said.” 

“Nor I,” said Harry. “And then all that 
music ; it was so nice and so easy, and now I 
can’t even imagine how it sounded.” 

The prior’s face had grown very serious. 
He looked at his nephews with reverence and 
awe. 

“My dear little ones,” he said after a mo- 
ment’s thought, “did your new little brother 
promise to take you to his home to-morrow ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, Father,” cried both in chorus. 

The prior paused again — a strange light 
came into his eyes. 

“O my God!” he exclaimed, “can it be? 
My children, I desire to go home with your 
little brother, too.” 

“You shall go. Father,” said Harry. 

“But you must get his permission,” 


Little Brother.'*' 


95 


“Oh, we’ll malce him let you come along,” 
said Harry, confidently. “We can do just 
what we please with him.” 

“That’s true,” assented John. “I can’t im- 
agine him refusing us anything, he is so good.” 

“Well, then, my little ones, you may go 
back to the chapel, and ask the dear Infant to 
induce your little brother to take me home, 
too.” 

“O, thank you. Father,” cried Harry. 

“And may we stay up as long as we like?” 
asked John. 

“Yes, my dears; I do not think you will 
need much sleep to-night. And to-morrow at 
mass, remember when you go to Holy Com- 
munion, to pray that I may go away with you.” 
********* 

The prior and his two acolytes had re-entered 
the sacristy at the end of the Christmas masses. 

“How happy I should be,” whispered Harry 
to John, “if our little brother would come 
now. He ought to be here by this time. I 
think I shall scold him when he comes.” 

“Perhaps he is waiting for us in the chapel,” 
suggested John. 

Harry walked to the door, then looked out, 
and even as he looked a great joy lighted up 


96 


New Faces and Old, 


his wan features. In a stride his brother was 
beside him. 

“O Father,’’ cried Harry, “there is little 
brother standing on the altar and beckoning 
us. He ought not to stand on the altar, 
though.” 

The aged Father tottered to the door, gave 
one look, and cried : 

“Kneel, my children, kneel. It is the dear 
httle Infant, Himself.” 

They fell upon their knees in sudden awe; 
and as they knelt the Child glided to their side, 
and whispered in the ear of each. And as 
each one heard the message, his face shone 
with the light of heaven. Again the Child 
went to each of the kneeling group, and pressed 
each head to His bosom. 

When the sacristan came at early dawn he 
saw the three figures bent in seeming adora- 
tion before the tabernacle. On coming nearer, 
though, and examining their irresponsive faces, 
he was much frightened ; for he did not know 
that “Little Brother” had taken them to His 
home. 


The Casuistry of Thomas Playfair, 97 


THE CASUISTRY OF THOMAS 
PLAYFAIR. 



HOMAS Playfair, chubby, rubicund, was 


unusually cheerful after his fourth con- 


* fession. He experienced a spiritual con- 
solation which was inclined to show itself 
exteriorly in the breaking of things. However, 
as he walked homeward there happened to be 
nothing; breakable convenient: so Tom was 
fain to content himself with drawing a stick 
rapidly along the iron rods of a fence. His 
fullness of happiness, however, was tempered 
by regret for his drum at home. 

Tom, you may be sure, had made a good 
confession ; and he had resolved, among other 
things, to avoid fighting. Such a promise at 
this interesting period of his life meant much. 

As it happened, it meant a great deal on 
this very occasion. One square beyond the 
church, and in a very unfashionable quarter, 
stood a saloon, fronted at the edge of the side- 


98 


New Faces and Old, 


walk by a large watering-trough. Beside this 
trough, as Tom came near, were several very 
dirty little boys, prominent among whom, for 
dirt and size, was an urchin, dark-eyed, black- 
haired, unwashed. This youth had been knock- 
ing his followers about quite freely. His fists 
were clenched, his scanty shirt was open at the 
throat, and he was breathing heavily. Two 
others of the group were rather the worse for 
battle. 

Tom paused. 

“If I try to pass that fellow,” he reflected, 
“just as like as not he’ll want to fight; I’ve 
heard about him. Anyhow, he’s not more 
than my size, and — ” 

At this stage of his thought Tom shook his 
head violently. Here he had been actually 
planning a fight. 

“I think I’d better turn and go the other 
way,” he continued to himself, as he slackened 
his pace. 

Now it so happened that the young bully per- 
ceived Tom’s hesitation. Instantly the fire of 
battle flashed from his eyes, and he bawled out ; 

“Halloa, dandy ! ” 

Poor Tom ! To turn now would seem to be 
a confession of cowardice. To go on? Yes, 


The Casuistry of Thomas Playfair. 99 


Tom would go on ; but he would not fight, in 
any event. 

The youth met him half-way, advancing 
with doubled fists and a strut which would 
have passed muster in the Bowery. 

“For two cents I’ll knock your head off.” 

Tom was anxious, but collected. He put his 
hand in his pocket, drew out a nickel, and said : 

“Here’s five cents not to do it.” 

The bully took the five-cent piece, while a 
tide of emotion bore down upon him. For the 
moment he was dumbfounded, while Tom 
passed on, demure, serene; and all the world, 
that is the youngsters by the water-trough, 
wondered. 

On coming to himself the young swash- 
buckler pocketed the nickel, then gave a yell 
and made after Tom with intentions which 
could not be misunderstood. 

And Tom! — Tom took to his heels. 

This, I believe, was the beginning of his 
career as a hero. He ran well, too, and 
reached home panting, breathless, and, it must 
be confessed, in a very uncomfortable frame 
of mind. 

“He’ll be on the lookout for me again,” 
Tom muttered to himself, “and it won’t do to 


100 


New Faces and Old. 


keep running away all the time. It’s too hard, 
and, besides, it will make things worse. All 
those fellows will want to fight me. I wish I 
could see my way out. I won’t fight, anyhow; 
and if I don’t fight. I’ll have to fight. It’s a 
conundrum.” 

Then Tom went out to a sand-pile in the 
street, and there enjoyed himself in the artless 
fashion peculiar to boys of his tender age. 
Meanwhile his mind sustained a process of 
hard thinking. 

Suddenly, hands and feet sent the sand fly- 
ing in the air, and Tom, with a happy smile, 
dashed into the house. 

He came out presently, giving evidence in 
his improved appearance of having bestowed 
unusual attention upon his person. One hand 
was in his jacket-pocket, the other, as he 
walked, described three-quarter circles in the 
air. There was no hesitation in his step now, 
as he retraced, at a dignified walk, the path of 
his recent flight. 

“Immense,” he muttered, as he came in 
sight of the saloon and perceived the group 
still lingering beside the horse-trough. 

The young bully seemed to look upon the 
situation in the same light. He whispered a 


The Casuistry of Thomas Playfair. 101 


fev7 words to his admirers, and, putting his 
arms a-kimbo, stationed himself midway on the 
pavement. 

Tom, ineffably serene, continued to advance. 

“Have you come to fight? ’’ called out the 
bully. 

“No,” answered Tom, affably. “It’s against 
my precepts to fight.” 

The word “precepts” had occurred in Tom’s 
last catechism lesson. It was the nearest word 
to “principles” that suggested itself. 

“I’ll knock your head off,” continued the 
street-boy, still keeping his arms a-kimbo. 

Tom came on with steady pace until he was 
within a yard of the enemy. 

Then, quick as a fiash, out from the pocket 
came the hand clasping a bar of soap. At the 
same instant Tom threw his arms about the 
boy, and with one sudden and vigorous swing 
had his head in the trough. 

There was a gurgling, a coughing, a quick 
motion up and down of the hand that held the 
soap, a few lusty kicks upon Tom’s insensible 
shins, and presently the face came up, clean, 
dripping, terrified, awe-stricken. That face had 
never been thus treated within its owner’s 
memory. The few kicks, which he had dis- 


102 


New Faces and Old, 


tributed upon Tom’s legs at first, were the 
beginning and the end of his resistance. The 
washing had acted upon him as blinders upon 
a horse. 

His following was standing at a safe dis- 
tance. 

“There, now,” panted Tom, “I’ve given 
your face a good washing. It needed it. It 
was virtuous to wash it. Next time you bother 
me Fll wash your neck, tooF 

With which horrible threat on his lips Tom 
walked away unmolested. Tom was not both- 
ered again. 

He went away, taking himself quite seri- 
ously. Perhaps the angels were amused at 
Tom’s solution — of that I am not certain; but 
I am convinced, at any rate, that his applica- 
tion of soap upon the young bully was imputed 
to him in the celestial chancery unto justice. 



One of Claude Lightfoot's Birthdays, 103 


ONE OF CLAUDE LlGHTFOOrS 
BIRTHDAYS. 


HE first rosy tints of dawn were glow- 
ing in the East, when a very small boy 
bounded from his bed, and danced into 
his clothes. The little lad’s eyes were danc- 
ing, too; and his cheeks were flushed very 
prettily, like the skies upon which his window 
looked out. 

No wonder the boy danced ; no wonder his 
cheeks were flushed as a red, red rose. Claude 
Lightfoot, even on ordinary occasions, could 
scarcely help dancing, and his face was, at all 
times, prettily aglow. But on this promising 
morning there was a rosier glow on his cheek, 
an accelerated liveliness in the dance. In a 
word, it was Claude’s eleventh birthday, and — 
happy boy — he was about to undertake his 
first fishing expedition. 

The room in which he danced fronted on 
Pewaukee Lake, the waters of which were 


104 


New Faces and Old, 


rippling in the morning breeze, and carrying 
upon their surface signals, crimson and gold, 
of the coming sunrise. 

The night before an elaborate programme 
for the next day’s fishing expedition had been 
sketched out by Mr. Lightfoot. The party, 
consisting of Claude’s father and mother and 
sister Kate, was to take a boat at nine, row 
forthwith to Thomas’ Island, establish their 
camping-grounds on that beautiful spot, lunch 
at eleven, dine at one, sup at six; then, at 
sundown, return to the villa of their host, Mr. 
Morrison. 

This plan was carefully thought out ; not a 
detail, Mr. Lightfoot flattered himself, had 
been overlooked ; and yet there was an element 
of uncertainty in the whole matter. That el- 
ement of uncertainty was Master Claude Light- 
foot himself. 

His mother thought him an angel. If she 
were correct in her opinion, he was a very 
restless and reckless angel, indeed ; so restless 
and reckless that at this stage of his sunny ca- 
reer he was known by all his neighbors under 
the striking and alliterative title of “Calamity 
Claude.” 


One of Claude LiglitfooV s Birthdays. 105 


There was some foundation for this name. 
At the age of six he had built a fire under the 
back porch of his father’s house, in order to 
roast a potato which he had cajoled of a pass- 
ing vegetable man. The potato was roasted to 
a crisp, and the fire department deserved well 
of the city and of Mr. Lightfoot for saving 
the house from total destruction. The roast- 
ing of that potato cost Claude’s father several 
hundred dollars. The child refrained from 
kindling fires thereafter, but soon hit upon an 
excellent substitute for this forbidden pleas- 
ure. He contrived to be present — and very 
much in evidence indeed — at all conflagrations 
within a radius of one or two miles ; in such 
wise, that when the neighbors saw a little fel- 
low, with long golden hair streaming to the 
winds, come dancing along and shouting ‘‘Hi, 
hi,” at the top of his treble pipe, they would 
say: 

“There goes Calamity Claude. I wonder 
whose house is burning this time ! ’ ’ 

Some people went so far as to assert that 
Claude reached the scene of the fire before the 
hose-carriage. This was an exaggeration. 

One day it came about that by some wonder- 
ful contriving and twisting, Claude succeeded 


106 


New Faces and Old, 


in dancing full into the path of a powerful 
stream from a hose. A burly fireman picked 
him up and carried him home, where, despite 
his protests, he was put to bed, and, despite 
his tears, kept there for eight hours of broad 
daylight. To make matters worse, Mr. Light- 
foot strictly forbade him to go to any more 
fires unattended. 

Claude obeyed, and at once sought out other 
fields for the play of his untiring activities. 
The prohibition, as it happened, had been 
given him on the second day of July. The 
fourth of the same month witnessed the tem- 
porary obliteration of his beautiful arched eye- 
brows, and the partial disappearance of his 
long, silken eyelashes. He was like the sun 
shorn of its beams. Claude had brought about 
this change in a very simple way. He had put 
a lighted match to a handful of powder, stoop- 
ing over, at the same time, to take a more ac- 
curate survey of the result. Before Claude’s 
eyebrows had been quite restored, he broke 
his arm in an attempt to balance himself on 
the back of a chair. 

To Mrs. Lightfoot, it is hardly necessary to 
say, Claude was a subject of much anxiety. 
When he was away from home, the fond 


One of Claude Liglitfoofs Birthdays. 107 


mother would pass in review every calamity 
possible that might happen to her little darling. 
At any unusual stir without, she would rush 
to the window, fearing that Claude was being 
brought back, disfigured, maimed, or dead. 

A few days after he had broken his arm, 
Mrs. Lightfoot, standing beside his bed, was 
contemplating the happy features of her sleep- 
ing child. He was scarce seven, she reflected, 
and still within this small compass of years he 
had gone into numerous adventures, and, on 
several occasions, simply come ofl with his 
life. What might not the future bring? 

Her eyes, as she reflected, chanced to rest 
upon a picture hanging over Claude’s bed — 
Plockhorst’s “Our Guardian Angel.” A gra- 
cious spirit stood watch and ward over two 
children ; one a little girl reaching for a flower 
on the edge of a precipice, the other a bright, 
happy lad — so like her own Claude — stepping 
forward to catch a butterfly. That step, if 
taken, would plunge him over the brink. 
With his eyes on the butterfly, the child was 
unaware of his danger. Yes, but the angel 
was by his side, and because of that dear an- 
gel’s presence, the step was never to be taken. 
Thus gazing and meditating, the mother’s face 


108 


JSfexo Faces and Old. 


suddenly lighted up ; she sank upon her knees 
beside her boy, and in a fervent prayer ded- 
icated him in a special manner to his angel. 
She besought Claude’s invisible guide to pro- 
tect her boy, and she promised, in return, to 
teach Claude love and devotion to his heavenly 
guardian . 

On the following day there befell an incident 
so strange, and of such a nature, as to con- 
vince Mrs. Lightfoot that her prayer had not 
been uttered in vain. 

Claude, carrying his arm in a sling, was 
skipping upon the sidewalk in front of his 
home, while Mr. Lightfoot, seated on the 
stoop, was glancing over the evening paper, 
and breathing in gratefully the cooling lake 
breeze, which had come, like a benediction, to 
dispel an unusually long period of hot weather. 
When Mr. Lightfoot presently raised his eyes 
from the paper, he discovered Claude endeav- 
oring to mount a huge dog. The dog’s head 
was bent close to the sidewalk, his tongue was 
protruding from foam-covered lips; he was 
moving along slowly, sullenly, paying no at- 
tention to the boy’s movements. 

“Claude, Claude!” 


One of Claude Lightfoofs Birthdays, 109 


As Mr. Lightfoot spoke, the dog turned 
his head; there was a strange and forbid- 
ding look in his bloodshot eyes. Very much 
alarmed, Mr. Lightfoot sprang to his feet and 
threw open the hall door. 

“Claude,’’ he cried, “come here at once.” 

Claude obeyed, and as he tripped laughingly 
to his father’s side, a policeman, pistol in 
hand, turned the corner. 

“Mad dog! ” shouted the policeman. 

On the instant, Mr. Lightfoot caught the 
child in his arms, sprang back into the hallway 
and banged the door. As the door closed, the 
dog, with a savage growl, sprang up the steps, 
and his paws beat savagely against the panels. 
Then came three distinct pistol shots, and all 
was still. 

Even little Claude was brought to under- 
stand the peril into which he had been thrown, 
and the seemingly miraculous nature of his 
escape. From that hour dated his love for 
his angel — a love which shall last, I trust, to 
his dying day. 

Henceforth, Mrs. Lightfoot, though by no 
means utterly free from anxiety, possessed 
her soul, comparatively speaking, in peace. 


110 


New Faces and Old. 


Without going further into Claude’s early 
tumblings and bumpings and mischances, it is 
sufficient to say that the youngster always 
came forth without incurring serious harm. 
His angel, according to our way of looking at 
things, must have had a busy time of it, in- 
deed. Enough has been said to lead to the 
inference that Claude, when it came to the 
making of a day’s programme which included 
himself, was a very uncertain factor. 

So then Claude was to go fishing with his 
father, mother and sister — such was the plan. 

Mr. and Mrs. Lightfoot did no fishing that 

o o 

day, and Kate, at the present writing, has not 
caught a single fish yet. 

As for Claude — 


II. 

The subject of this veracious narrative gazed 
out of the window down upon the green, trim 
lawn, which sloped to the lake. It was a 
tempting sight. What a glorious thing it 
would be to take a dash down the slope and 
across the lawn. However, there was a diffi- 
culty in the way. To leave the room accord- 
ing to the conventional manner, that is through 
the doorway, Claude must needs pass through 


One of Claude LightfooV s Birthdays, 111 


the chamber where his father was sleeping, 
and to disturb Mr. Lightfoot’s rest was not to 
be thought of. 

Claude thrust his head out of the window, 
and to his manifest joy discovered, within easy 
reach, a lightning rod. Down this, without a 
moment’s hesitation, the young gentleman ef- 
fected a rapid descent, and quick as thought — 
quicker than thought, rather, for Claude did 
no thinking till later in the day — he bounded 
off towards the lake as blithe as a robin that 
caroled in the neighboring grove. 

A dainty butterfly arrested his flying feet, 
and brought his hat from his head in an un- 
successful attempt at its capture. 

With a characteristic prodigality in the way 
of carelessness, he left his hat behind him, 
and sped after the gorgeous creature till a wee 
bird on a twig diverted his attention. It was a 
timid, fluttering, tiny thing, and the adventurer 
felt quite certain that he could catch it “just 
as easy as nothing.” For a good quarter of 
an hour he chased it steadily, and then, out of 
breath, realized that he had sadly underesti- 
mated the bird’s strength of wing, and that, in 
consequence, further pursuit was useless, 

Claude now gazed about him. 


112 


New Faces and Old. 


Hatless and out of breath, he was standing 
on a steam-boat landing. One of his stockings 
was down, and there was a prominent rent in 
his shirt. Claude rather rejoiced in this rent — 
it revealed his first pair of suspender's, worn 
for the first time that very morning. 

Before he had quite made up his mind to go 
in search of his hat, his eye chanced to fall 
upon a pin. 

“‘/S'ee a pin and pick it up,^^’ 

“ ^All the day youdl have good luck,'" ’’ mut- 
tered Claude. 

This little pin changed the fate of that day. 
As it lay in his hand, Claude gazed at it, then 
upon the waters. 

‘‘Guess I’ll go fishing before they are up,” 
he murmured. 

He bent the pin, and tied it to a string 
which he produced from out the museum of 
odds and ends in his pocket. By way of a 
sinker, he took his gold ring o:ff his finger and 
fastened it to the line. The ring had been 
given to him on his last birthday. A pole and 
a worm were easily secured by the enterprising 
youth, and in the time that it takes to narrate 
it, Claude was seated upon the pier, gleefully 
kicking his heels in the air, while gazing hope- 


One of Claude Lighifoofs Birthdays, 113 


fully at a bit of wood which bobbed upon the 
water in lieu of a floater. 

The spot which Claude had chanced upon 
afforded a good view of the lower lake, with 
its wooded shores, its stretches of lawn, its 
gay villas, and, within clear range of Claude’s 
fine eye-shot, a summer hotel, gorgeous with 
flags, banners and bunting, and standing out 
in the midst of most inviting pleasure-grounds. 
But it was the water which afforded the chief 
attraction to the fisher-boy. So clear and 
calm and cooling did it look, that he was sorely 
tempted to disrobe and plunge boldly in. But 
there were two objections. 

First of all, Claude could not swim. Of 
this objection, it must be confessed, he made 
small account. Had he been asked whether he 
could swim, he would have answered that he 
did not know. 

The second objection was that his mother 
had forbidden him to make any such attempt. 
Claude was obedienti^ 

“I wish I had a hook with a bit of a sticker 
at the end of it, like men use,” said Claude, 
still kicking his legs. 

The cork just then gave a lurch, bobbed, 
like a boy making an awkward attempt to stand 


114 


Nexo Faces and Old. 


on his head, sank back as though exhausted by 
the effort; then, with seeming new life, stood 
up straight for the smallest fraction of a sec- 
ond, and disappeared. 

Claude gave his line a sharp tug, and his 
heart bounded exultingly as he felt the weight 
and struggle at the other end. 

“Hi, hi!’’ he screamed, jumping to his 
feet. He added immediately, “Oh pshaw!” 
For the fish with a single jerk had slipped 
away, while the pin flew high in air. Still in 
the passing throes of disappointment, Claude 
chanced to observe, upon a pile of shingles at 
his side, a rusty nail. He seized it, and, in a 
fit of prudence, removed his ring from the line 
to replace it by this less expensive sinker. 

So engrossed was Claude in making this 
change that he failed to notice the arrival of a 
man fully accoutered for a day’s outing, hold- 
ing in his hand a fine rod upon which glit- 
tered a silver reel. The approach towards the 
landing-place of an ancient boatman with his 
boat, brought Claude out of his fit of absorp- 
tion. 

“Are you going fishing, sir?” Claude en- 
quired of the gentleman, who appeared to be 
vexed. 


One of Claude Lightfoof s Birthdays, 115 


“Yes, Sonny/' 

“I am Claude, sir. Are you going right 
off?" 

“Why — are you anxious to time me?" 

“No, sir; but while you are waiting you 
might lend me your fishing pole." 

“Upon my word!" ejaculated the sports- 
man. 

He added, after a glance shoreward : 

“That boy of mine is so careless — the girl 
too, for that matter. They promised most 
solemnly not to keep me waiting one minute, 
and now it's later by an hour than the time we 
agreed upon for starting, and the best part of 
the fishing time is nearly over. What do you 
say. Jack," turning to the boatman, “to our 
going out and fishing around here till they 
come ? ' ' 

“There is fine black bass right around this 
here place," remarked the man at the oars, 
“and it wouldn’t hurt to try some trolling till 
the children come." 

“Oh mister," pleaded Claude, “can’t I go 
along with you? I want to catch a big fish." 

Not deigning to notice this appeal, the man 
stepped into the boat, and, as he shoved it off, 
cried out ; 


116 


New Faces and Old. 


“Bobby, if my little boy and girl come along 
here, just tell them to wait till I get back. Do 
you understand what I’m telling you?” 

“My name is Claude,” returned the artless 
youth in all seriousness. 

The boat had not made many lengths, when 
a boy and a girl, in the wildest excitement, 
came dashing across the lawn, and down upon 
the pier. 

“Papa, papa!” screamed the boy, “you 
just come right back and take me.” 

“Papa, papa!” sobbed the girl with tears, 
which happened to be genuine, rolling down 
her cheeks. 

For the father it was a tragic moment. He 
loved fishing; he idolized his children. The 
fishing was good; the children were bad. He 
had gone to great pains to try his luck early ; 
the children had brought all his endeavors to 
nothing. They had kept him waiting ; it was 
just that they should themselves wait. Be- 
sides, to return meant another loss of ten or 
twelve minutes. 

The boatman rested on his oars, and the 
father with a weak expression upon his face, 
addressed himself to his savage idols. 


One of Claude Lightfoot' s Birthdays. 117 


“My sweet little tiddie-widdies,” he began, 
“listen—” 

“I’ll be had, I will. Come back right off,” 
bawled the son. “Come on now, you needn’t 
talk.” 

While the engaging youth was thus discour- 
aging his father’s attempt at oratory, the sis- 
ter, a spoiled child of eight or nine, was 
screaming at the top of her voice, with her 
shoulders drawn up to her ears. The boatman 
gazed on open-mouthed. As for Claude, he 
was inexpressibly shocked. 

When the little girl had lost her breath, the 
father seized his chance. 

“Listen to me for one moment, my precious 
darlings.” 

“You come on and bring that boat here,” 
suggested the son in a roar. 

“Silence, sir!” cried the unhappy parent, 
goaded into an exhibition of authority by his 
son’s extravagant impertinence. 

The boy started, the girl turned pale. It 
was their turn to be astonished. 

“You stay there on the pier till I come back 
for you. You have disobeyed me, you have 
broken your word, and you have been im- 
pudent. Pull away, boatman.” 


118 


Neio Faces and Old. 


With perplexed and lengthening faces, the 
dutiful children watched the receding boat till 
it disappeared behind a point of land, when at 
once their energies returned. The girl raised 
her shoulders and renewed her screaming ; 
while her brother, with an ear-piercing howl, 
threw himself upon the pier, where he kicked 
and rolled in a seeming frenzy. In the wild 
abandon of his contortions he happened to 
kick Claude. It was now Claude’s turn to be 
angry. With flashing eyes, he caught his un- 
witting aggressor by the collar and held him 
fast. 

“Stop! ” roared the reckless kicker. 

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” 
bawled Claude. 

“Let go, will you? I didn’t mean to kick 
you. Let go, I say.” 

“I don’t mind your kicking me so much; 
but you oughtn’t to carry on that way before 
your papa. He’s your boss, you know. How 
do you expect to get to heaven, anyhow? I’ve 
a notion to stick your head in the water. 
There, now. I’ll let you loose.” 

With her shoulders still close to her ears, the 
girl had watched the scene in amazed silence. 
As for the brother — the idea that he, Charlie 


One of Claude Lightfoof s Birthdays, 119 


Sherlock, the son of Considine Sherlock, a 
leading business man of Chicago, should be 
asked by an ordinary boy how he expected to 
get to heaven ! 

Charlie Sherlock looked lakewards to assure 
himself that his father was not within sight. 
Satisfied with his survey, he made a careful 
examination of the pier. He found, in place 
of a chip, a partially burnt match, which he 
put on his right shoulder. 

“Say, Johnnie,” he said, stepping up to 
Claude, “you just knock that chip off my 
shoulder.” 

“My name is Claude.” 

“I don’t care what your name is. You 
just go on, and knock that chip off my shoul- 
der.” 

“It’s a match,” Claude remarked. 

“Are you going to knock that chip off my 
shoulder or not ? ’ ’ 

“Is your mamma well?” Claude enquired, 
as he turned his back from Charlie, in order to 
watch his cork. 

“None of your business,” snapped Charlie. 

“I guess you’re the only boy,” Claude went 
on affably, “and I suppose that girl over there 
is your sister?” 


120 


New Faces and Old, 


A word of explanation will account for 
Claude’s manner of dealing with Charlie. Only 
the week before Mr. Lightfoot had called him 
to task for quarreling. 

“But I can’t help it, pa,” he had said. 
“When fellows come up and want to lick me, 
what am I to do?” 

Talk about something cZse,” answered the 
father. “It’s a sure way of avoiding a fight.” 

This instruction Claude was now faithfully 
carrying out. 

His challenger, in the present instance, was 
astonished. 

“See here, Johnnie — ” 

“I told you once my name was Claude. 
What’s your name?” 

“You needn’t go talking about my family. 
My father’s a banker. You haven’t been in- 
troduced, and you’ve no right to go talking 
that way. You’re a coward, anyhow. Say, 
aren’t you going to knock that chip off?” 

“Sh!” cried Claude, jumping to his feet, 
“I’ve got a bite.” 

Charlie was diverted by the new interest. 
The chip fell from his shoulder, as he rushed 
to Claude’s side, and gazed eagerly at the 
twitching float. 


One of Claude Lightfoot's Birthdays. 121 


“Why don’t you pull in?” he queried. 

“Sh!” said Claude; the float disappeared 
as he spoke, and Claude, with a jerk, raised 
high in air a fine fat perch. 

“Whoop! hi! hi!” he screamed, dancing 
about the pier, and waving his fish in Charlie’s 
face. 

“Keep that fish away from me,” cried 
Charlie, jumping back as though the fish had 
been a snake. 

For answer, Claude broke out into his jolliest 
laugh, and again dangled the perch in Charlie’s 
face. 

“I’ll smash your head for you,” threatened 
Charlie. 

Again Claude laughed, again he pursued the 
retreating lad with the fish. 

The perch at this moment slipped off the 
hook, and Claude at once hopped over after it, 
and stooped to pick it up. 

While in this position he received a smart 
blow on the ear. Claude was up in an instant, 
and the process of hopping and brandishing 
of fists that he went through would have as- 
tonished a company of acrobats. It certainly 
produced surprise in the person most inter- 
ested, who, before he had fairly realized that 


122 


N'ew Faces and Old, 


Claude had arisen, received a dozen stout body 
blows, and what promised to develop into a 
black eye. 

“I take it back,’’ he screamed, as the tears 
rolled down his face. 

As Claude forthwith suspended his war- 
dance, and again stooped to pick up his perch, 
there came a giggle from the girl. 

“You shut up, Celia,” said the boy, an- 
grily. 

“Shut up yourself,” came the ladylike reply 
to this most gentlemanlike bit of advice. “It 
served you right. You shouldn’t have struck 
him when he wasn’t looking.” 

“I’ll slap you over,” bellowed the amiable 
brother. 

“If you do,” said Claude, now thoroughly 
angered, “I’ll run this perch down your 
throat.” 

Claude was a knight ; he was thinking of his 
own sister as he spoke. 

only my sister F explained Charlie, 
apologetically. 

For fully thirty seconds there was no sun- 
shine on Claude’s face, but he said nothing. 

Turning in disgust both from Claude and 
from her who was only his sister, Charlie 


One of Claude LighlfooVs Birthdays. 123 


perched himself upon the railing which guarded 
one side of the pier. 

Presently his father’s boat hove in sight, 
turning the point. Charlie uttered a yell of 
triumph, and made a quick movement. The 
rail was old and frail. 

There was a piercing shriek from the girl, a 
cry of agony from Mr. Sherlock, and Claude 
was dancing about like one possessed. 

Charlie, with a great splash, had tumbled 
into six feet of water. 

‘ ‘Can you swim ? ’ ’ bawled Claude, as Charlie 
came to the surface. 

By way of answer, the head disappeared. 

III. 

“Save my boy,” came an imploring voice 
from the boat. Mr. Sherlock was standing in 
the stern and waving his arms wildly, while 
the boatman rowed toward the drowning boy 
with all his strength. 

“Save my brother,” cried the girl, who, as 
she spoke, caught Claude by the arm. 

“Let go, will you,” piped Claude, shaking 
off the sister with a rudeness born of the ex- 
citement; and then, placing a hand upon the 
railing, the little lad bounded over it into the 


124 


New Faces and Old. 


water. Claude, for all he was so reckless, 
had measured his distance carefully. He had 
dropped within easy reach of one of the pier’s 
supports, and as he rose like a cork to the sur- 
face, he caught the post in one hand, and 
reached out the other in the direction where 
Charlie had gone under. Nor was he a mo- 
ment too soon. His hand, as it went out, was 
grasped tightly by the drowning boy, who at 
once began to kick with such violence that 
Claude was within a little of losing his hold. 

But although the rescuer succeeded in main- 
taining his clasp, he found it impossible to 
keep Charlie’s head above water. 

“Girl,” he panted, “shove over that pack 
of shingles — quick.” 

Celia obeyed with alacrity. With a great 
effort she pushed the shingles over the pier. 

Claude now did a very bold thing. 

He wished to put the pack of shingles under 
Charlie’s head; but as one hand was employed 
in clinging to the wooden support, and the 
other in holding Charlie, the project seemed 
impossible of fulfillment. Here Claude’s dar- 
ing and inventiveness both came into play. 
With a slight spring forward, he released his 
hold of the post, but only to catch it with his 


One of Claude Lightfoof s Birthdays. 125 


feet while in the act of springing. Claude was 
even then a practiced gymnast. He was al- 
ready a past master in the art of hanging by 
his toes and heels. He was now applying his 
athletics to a practical purpose. 

This daring move, in its first consequences, 
promised disaster. 

While Claude’s feet and knees remained in 
the air, his head went under water; and the 
little girl, thinking that all was lost, fell upon 
her knees. To make matters worse, one of 
the two oars, which were being put to such se- 
vere use by the old fisherman, snapped under 
the unusual strain. 

But in this dark moment a little hand came 
to the surface, groped about, and finally rested 
upon the pack of shingles ; and forthwith, up 
came Claude’s head. With a quickness, dex- 
terity and coolness wonderful in a lad of his 
years, Claude brought the shingles over to 
Charlie’s side, and with another movement, 
which again submerged him, succeeded in 
placing Charlie’s head upon the support. 
Charlie was now unconscious. 

“Hurry up with that boat,” panted Claude, 
“there’s a nail or something sticking into my 
leg.” 


126 


New Faces and Old. 


“For God’s sake, hold him tight,” cried 
Mr. Sherlock. “We’ll be there in a moment.” 

But it was a long moment. The boat was a 
hundred feet away, and, under the propulsion 
of but one oar, advanced slowly. Claude felt 
that he could hold out no longer; and he 
breathed a rapid prayer to his guardian angel. 

“Girl,” he suddenly said, “lie down on the 
pier and catch hold of my feet.” 

Celia again obeyed. Throwing herself 
prone, she reached forward and caught the 
locked shoes of the rescuer. 

“Can 3^ou hold ’em tight?” 

“I think so.” 

“Then we’re all right,” said Claude. “I 
was nearly gone; there was a whole lot of 
water ran down my throat, and I got tired. 
Say, hurry up with that boat.” 

The boat was now approaching an extraor- 
dinary tableau. A little girl lying upon a 
pier, and holding tightly a lad by the feet; 
the small boy with forehead and nose above 
water supporting an unconscious head upon 
a pack of shingles, while beating the water 
with his free hand after the instinct of a nat- 
ural swimmer. 


One of Olaude LiglitfooVs Birthdays. 127 


At last the boat reached them ; the rescue 
was easy, and Claude, little the worse for his 
bath, was presently dancing the water out of 
his clothes upon the eventful pier. 

Charlie was almost immediately restored to 
consciousness. He signalized his restoration 
by a whine, which, as he gathered strength, 
developed into a dismal howl. The boatman, 
the father and the sister were all absorbed in 
attentions to Charlie. 

They had at length succeeded in persuading 
that interesting young person to cease his howl- 
ing, when Claude stepped over to the group. 

“Mister,” he said, “do you intend using 
that boat just now ? ’ ’ 

It was on the card for Mr. Sherlock to step 
forward, seize Claude’s hands, and exclaim in 
trembling tones: “My dear boy, you have 
saved my son’s life.” He did nothing of the 
sort. He turned his head slightly, and said : 

“No; take it, if you want it. By the way, 
I’m ever so much obliged to you.” 

“And don’t you need your fishing line and 
your ‘minnies?’ ” 

“No; you may take the whole affair; I 
must attend to my boy. He must be put to 
bed at once.” 


128 


New Faces and Old, 


“Thank you, sir; and where shall I leave 
the boat when I am done with it?’^ 

“Can you row?’’ 

“That’s easy,” said Claude, lightly. 

“Bring it back here, then.” 

“All right.” 

In a state of wild exhilaration, Claude hopped 
into the boat. He was about to push off, 
when the little girl ran over and caught his 
hand. 

“Oh, thank you for saving my brother; 
you’re a brave boy.” 

“That was nothing,” said Claude, simply. 
He added, with a touch of pride: “Oh, but 
you ought to see me bend the crab. Hanging 
by the feet is nothing to it.” 

As Claude paddled away, his new friends 
bore landwards the sobbing Charlie. 

Claude pulled out some two hundred odd 
feet from shore, cast anchor, baited his hook 
with a real “minnie,” and having solved a few 
mysteries of the reel, seated himself in the 
stern of the boat. Suddenly he jumped to his 
feet, saving himself from toppling over through 
a seeming miracle. 

“Oh, good gracious. I clean forgot.” 


One of Claude LightfooVs Birthdays, 129 


Just at this moment he remembered that to- 
day was his eleventh birthday, and that his 
parents must be wondering as to his where- 
abouts. 

Whether to return at once or not — that was 
the question. Was it his duty? Would he 
be disobedient if he were to remain here just 
for a few minutes ? It was glorious to be on 
the water, and just think of catching a big 
fish with no grown person around to help in 
the catching. There wasn’t a single grown 
person in sight. Ah, yes there was. As Claude 
glanced around, he saw a boat turning the cape. 
Well, they were not in his boat, anyhow. 

Again there were twinges of conscience; 
again Claude hesitated. 

“I’ll just think it out,” he said, as the 
strange boat cast anchor a rod or so above 
him; “and while I am thinking, perhaps some 
old fish will give me a bite.” 

Thus compromising with his conscience, he 
did actually try to think it out. One minute 
went by, and then the question was decided in 
so strange, in so unbelievable a manner, by an 
adventure so odd, that I almost fear to put it 
down, lest some readers may think that I ex- 
aggerate. 


130 


New Faces and Old. 


IV. 

The boat which had anchored near Claude 
was occupied by two gentlemen, one of them 
in the thirties, the other fairly advanced in 
middle life. 

“Bob,’’ the younger remarked, “that’s an 
interesting study over there.” 

“What?” asked Bob, as he stooped down 
to light a cigar. 

“That boy. The American boy holds the 
world’s record for independence. That little 
chap alone in that boat, with a pole in his 
hands as big as himself, is hopping about as 
though he had lived in a boat all his life. I’ve 
a notion. Bob, to bring an American boy into 
my next novel.” 

“Don’t talk shop, Howard,” growled his 
companion. “I went to sleep over your nov- 
els regularly all last winter. Perhaps, how- 
ever, they wouldn’t be so sleepy if you were 
to bring in a real American boy. If you got 
him in at all, you’d liven up things a little.” 

“Much obliged to you for your suggestion, 
and your Idndly words of encouragement,” re- 
sponded Howard Allcott, an English novelist 
of some promise. “That boy would suit me 


07ie of Claude LiglitfooVs Birthdays. 131 


admirably. What a free-limbed, sparkling, 
sunny -faced lad he is ! He has the spring of 
the tiger, and the erectness of the lion. The 
sun is in his locks and the sunset in his cheeks.” 

“You needn’t practice on me with your 
pretty words.” 

“I hope he is able to swim, though.” 

“Why?” asked Bob. 

“Because he’s bound to fall out of the boat. 
He’s playing wiggle-waggle. If I read the 
youngster aright, he’ll begin to practice hop- 
scotch or hop-step-and-a-jump in that boat be- 
fore ten minutes are up. Halloa! he’s over 
sure! No, he isn’t! Good heavens! what a 
jumping-jack he is ! ” 

For at this moment Claude’s line, to the 
tune of the reel’s clicking, had run out, and 
Claude, in springing forward, had stumbled 
over one of the seats, and by an unspeakable 
twist had just escaped flopping over into the 
water. He was upon his feet at once, still 
grasping the pole, and then there came a yell 
of boyish triumph. 

“Whoop-la, hurrah! ” 

He then ceased shouting, in order to pay 
full attention to his mysterious reel. He saw 
at once that the reel required special study, 


132 


ISFew Faces and Old, 


which, under the circumstances, he could then 
hardly give it, so, dropping the pole in the 
boat, he grasped the line. In the meantime 
the reel had gone on clicking steadily, and the 
fish had run off to a considerable distance with 
the hook. 

As he caught the line, he gave it a jerk into 
which he put all his strength. Claude was a 
baby Hercules. That jerk fixed the hook 
firmly in the fish. 

“Why, the boy is a fool,” roared out the 
distinguished author. “He’ll be over the side 
of the boat in ten seconds, if the fish runs in 
on him and allows the line to slacken. Hey, 
boy! Look out! Stand up straight.” 

Claude’s next step had indeed been foolish. 
Standing in the center of the boat, and putting 
one foot on the gunwale nearest the fish, he 
threw himself back, so that the whole weight 
of his body was supported by the line and the 
fish’s resistance. Then he set about hauling 
in hand-over-hand. 

The author had some grounds for his alarm. 
He had scarcely shouted out his warning, when 
the fish, impatient of the tugging at his jaws, 
turned in his course, and with a magnificent 
leap, that disclosed to the onlookers a large 


One of Claude LiglitfooVs Birthdays. 133 


pike, shot down into the water, and straight 
towards his captor. At once the line became 
slack, and lo ! Claude took a back somersault 
into the water. 

But he still grasped his line firmly. 

‘‘Bob, Bob,” screamed Howard. “Up with 
the anchor quick, or there will be a drown- 
ing.” As he spoke he caught up the oars. 

Claude went down with a great splash. The 
scene that followed is beyond description. 
Claude’s impetus sent him down some five or 
six feet to the bottom. He still grasped the 
line tightly, and the fish was on the other side 
of the boat. Thus the line which held at one 
end a powerful pike was grasped at the other 
by a lad, who, though strong enough on 
shore, was a baby in the water. The line 
itself, as it happened, passed just over the cen- 
ter of the boat. 

The great splash which signalized Claude’s 
disappearance was almost simultaneously fol- 
lowed by another splash on the other side of 
the boat; for the pike, jerked by Claude’s 
weight and the impetus of his involuntary 
dive, shot up full five feet in the air. There 
never was a pike so thoroughly alarmed since 
fishes began to bite. 


134 


New Faces and Old, 


When Claude touched bottom, you may be 
sure that he was anxious to regain the surface ; 
and he leaped from the bed of the lake with 
such a leap as became Claude Lightfoot. The 
fish, on the other hand, w^as just as anxious to 
reach bottom as Claude was to gain the sur- 
face. So as Claude made a spring, the pike 
shot down with winged speed ; and then Claude 
flew skywards, kicking his little legs frantic- 
ally, and as he rose into the air, at least five 
feet, says the distinguished author, he afforded 
a spectacle as extraordinary as anything re- 
corded in the annals of fishing. He came 
down still kicking, and disappeared again. 

“Good heavens,’’ exclaimed the author, “it 
takes an American boy to get up new ideas. 
Think of a game of see-saw between a pike 
and a small boy.” 

And then Mr. Allcott put an end to this 
wonderful game of see-saw, by catching Claude’s 
locks in a firm grasp. 

“The fish! the fish!” sputtered Claude, 
“Look out for my fish.” 

“You’re holding the line; keep on holding 
it,” answered Mr. Allcott, as he cautiously 
raised the kicking youth, and hauled him, as- 
sisted by his companion, into their boat. 


One of Claude Lightfoof s Birthdays. 135 


Claude, you may be sure, did hold on, and 
resuming his hopping, much to the nervous 
terror of Bob and the delight of Mr. Allcott, 
he hauled the alarmed and thoroughly ex- 
hausted fish up to the gunwale, whereupon Mr. 
Allcott clasped it firmly about the head, and 
safely landed the finest catch of that season. 

“There’s an incident and a character for 
your next story,” remarked Bob. 

“The character is all very well,” remarked 
the author, “but I dare not handle the inci- 
dent; nobody would believe it. The taste of 
the day goes in for realism.” 

Claude was still dancing about his prize, 
when a third boat rounded the cape. 

“Oh, goodness ! ” gasped Claude. “Here’s 
my father, and I’ll bet he’s looking for 
me.” 

After the interchange of some civilities and 
a few hurried questions, Mr. Lightfoot turned 
to his son. 

“Tell me your story, Claude.” 

“Well, you see, pa, I got up early, and 
clirnbed down the lightning-rod. I tried to 
catch an old bird, and forgot everything. 
When I got through chasing that old bird, I 
was at a good place for fishing. Then a man 


136 


New Faces and Old, 


came along in a boat to take out his boy and 
girl. While the man was fishing, the boy fell 
into the water, and I helped to fish him out. 
I caught a dandy perch, too — but he’s nothing 
to this fellow. Just look at his mouth — it’s 
like a cave.” 

“Go on with your story, sir.” 

“Well, then I asked the man for the loan of 
his boat; and he let me have it. That’s the 
boat, half full of water. And then, when I 
got here, I caught a big fish.” 

“And nearly drowned yourself catching it,” 
remarked Bob. 

“No, I didn’t sir. It wasn’t so deep there. 
Why, I touched bottom easily ! ’ ’ 

“Claude, do you know what you deserve?” 
asked Mr. Lightfoot. 

“A whipping, pa,” answered Claude, sad 
but honest. He brightened up as he added : 
^^But it's a great fish!" 

“Howard,” said Bob, “by all means put 
that boy in your next book. It’s good to have 
one honest character in three volumes.” 

“Thanks, awfully,” laughed the author. 

Then Claude, the thoughtless, returned with 
his father. He spent the rest of the day on 


One of Claude LightfooVs Birthdays, 137 


shore, and if he did not get what he himself 
acknowledged he had deserved, it was in con- 
sideration of the fact that it was his eleventh 
birthday. 









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